Lost and Found
by Lady Razorsharp
Summary: In which those who love Holmes must go on without him...set just after The Final Problem.
1. Aftermath

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, _The Final Problem _and _The__ Empty House._

Part 1: Aftermath

_What's gone and what's past help  
Should be past grief. _

William Shakespeare, "The Winter's Tale", Act 3 scene 2

_He's gone. He's gone…_

The wheels of the train seemed to repeat the words over and over, a mournful cadence that only grew louder and stronger as the train drew nearer to London. Watson laid his head back against the padded seat, weary to the soul. He was half asleep when a familiar voice cut through the layers of fatigue.

_Two hours and we'll be back at Baker Street. It will be good to get home after this messy business, eh, Watson?_

"Yes," Watson agreed. "Thank God—"

The sound of his own voice echoing too loudly in an empty compartment brought him fully awake.

_He's gone. He's gone…_

Someone passed by the compartment, their shadow rippling indistinct along the folds of the drawn curtain. A few moments later, the door at the other end of the car slid open and shut. Watson felt as if he were trapped in a similar hallway, a door to Reichenbach at one end and a portal to Baker Street on the other.

In his heart, Watson knew that Holmes was long gone from that terrible place, though the detective's earthly remains would dwell in the depths forever. Going back to Reichenbach would solve nothing, though the desire to stay and comb the surrounding area for any sign of Holmes had been almost overwhelming. However, facing the empty rooms at Baker Street—along with the inevitable questions from Billy and Mrs. Hudson—was an equally wrenching prospect, and Watson curled himself against the wall of the train in hopes of slipping into forgetful sleep for the remainder of the journey.

_He's gone. He's gone…_

_Holmes!_

_His friend's name, torn hoarsely from his throat, was whisked away on the roar of the falls. He flung himself down on the edge of the cliff, straining to reach his friend who hung suspended between Heaven and a foaming, churning Hell._

_Holmes! Grab my hand!_

_Under a sheaf of dark hair plastered down with mist, the pale face below him twisted in pain._

_I'm trying…Oh, God, Watson, I'm so tired…_

_Their fingers were almost touching._

_You mustn't give up, Holmes! Just a little farther!_

_The gray eyes fluttered closed._

_Please, Watson. Let me go._

_NO!_

_Holmes was there, and then he was not. It was as simple as that._

Watson jerked awake, his shoulders heaving as if he'd run a mile. The compartment was suddenly stifling, and he ripped back the curtains and shoved his way through the sliding doors. He dove out the door at the end of the car and into the moist, cool air, leaning heavily on the railing. He stared, transfixed, at the smooth iron ribbon of track stretching away into the distance.

_Dreaming_, he reminded himself. _I was dreaming. _

The whistle shrilled, breaking his hypnotic reverie. Glancing up at the sky, which looked as gray and cold as he felt, Watson ran a hand over his face, trying to banish the fatigue for just a bit longer. Clouds were gathering overhead, promising days of rain that, while pleasant in the countryside, would turn London into a miserable mess of sludge and grime.

With a sudden flare of anger at how the world dared go on as if nothing had happened, Watson turned and went back inside.

The stone steps up to the front door of his home had never looked as inviting as they did that night, nor had the windows ever glowed so warmly with peach-colored light filtering through the sheer drawing-room curtains. The door, painted a deep, glossy green that looked black in the twilight, stood as proudly as a sentry, proclaiming safety and peace for all whom it guarded. Propping Holmes' Alpine-stock against the jamb, Watson fumbled for his key, his surgeon's hands made clumsy with fatigue. Before he could put the key in the door, however, the portal was torn open to reveal Mary Morstan Watson, her shoulders wrapped in a crocheted shawl over her day dress.

Without a word, Mary threw her arms around her husband, heedless of how such a display might look to passersby. Over her shoulder, Watson caught a glimpse of a thoroughly startled parlour-maid who had, no doubt, found herself nearly bowled over by her mistress' mad rush to the door.

"Oh, John, thank God you're safe." Mary pressed her smooth cheek to his, heedless of his roughened chin.

Watson held his wife for a moment, inhaling her lavender perfume, and it was only by summoning all his chivalry that he refrained from kissing her soundly right then and there. He pulled away long enough to collect the walking stick and his carpet bag, then gently guided his wife back inside the house. He handed his meager luggage to the maid, who quickly shut and locked the door behind them. "You can go now, Ivy," he said to the girl, and she dropped him a quick curtsey before scurrying away into the back of the house.

When they were safely behind the drawing-room door and the drapes pulled, Watson dropped his coat in a heap of wool on the rug and pulled his wife into a tight embrace. Even through the layers of stiff corset and rustling petticoats, she was warm and pliant, and sank against him with a sigh that made him ache all over. They stood together for several heartbeats, the ticking of the clock on the mantel the only sound beyond their breathing.

"Poor Mr. Holmes." Mary's words were little more than a hot flutter against his neck. "It was all over the papers yesterday."

"Yes." A wave of anguish crested within him, leaving him utterly numb in its wake. He let his hands slip from her shoulders, and she pulled away to regard him with a worried frown.

"Are _you_ all right?"

He stared at her mutely for a moment, then took her face into his hands and gently kissed her. When they parted, she caught his hand in hers and turned her face into his palm, leaving the imprint of her kiss there as well.

"I know," she murmured. "I know."

Supper was brought in, but Watson picked at what little his wife (at his request) had lain on his plate. Soon the dishes were cleared away, and he sat staring into the fire, thoughtfully fingering the polished wood of Holmes' Alpine-stock. Mary retrieved her knitting from a basket at her feet, and Watson let the clicking of her needles lull him into a comfortable drowsiness.

_A young boy—tall for his age, slender, dark hair, gray eyes—was standing before him at the edge of a misty green meadow. The child grinned up at him. "Come on, Watson!" he piped. He grabbed Watson's hand to lead him into the sea of dewy grass. "The game is afoot!" _

_Feeling an echo of the boy's grin spread across his own face, Watson found himself following along. "Slow down a bit," the doctor cautioned. The old war injury was already beginning to twinge from the damp. "I won't be able to keep up with you for very long, at this rate."_

_The child's only response was to giggle and increase their speed. "Come on! Come on!"_

_Now the leg was cramping in earnest, and Watson jolted to a stop. "I can't keep up with you. You've got to slow down."_

_Laughing, the child hurried on, his hand slipping out of Watson's. "Come on!"_

_There was a roaring in his ears as he limped after the boy, and his blood ran cold as he realized what the sound was._

_A waterfall._

_"No," he whispered. Though every step was agony, he gave chase._

_His lungs burning from the cold air, Watson burst through the ring of pines that edged the meadow only to find himself at Reichenbach. On an immense granite boulder near the boiling flume of whitewater stood a tall man in a dripping cloak._

_"NO!" Watson howled, matching his fury against that of the falls._

_The figure turned, revealing the face and form of Moriarty, and he was carrying the limp form of the young boy. With an icy shock of horror, Watson knew the child was dead._

_Without warning, the menacing figure launched himself into the air, his cloak billowing around him and the boy as they plunged into the mist._

"Holmes!"

For the second time that day, Watson was awakened by the sound of his own voice. There was a soft cry followed by a rustling of fabric, and he opened his eyes to find his wife bending over him.

Mary laid her cool hand against his cheek. "It's all right, John. You're home now."

"I'm sorry, my dear." Watson glanced around at the familiar furnishings of his own living room. "I was dreaming. Did I frighten you?"

"Just a little." She smiled gently. "You've been asleep for almost an hour. Go on up to bed, dearest."

He nodded and slowly got to his feet, stiff and sore from falling asleep in his chair. "Will you join me?" He raised his wife's hand to his lips and brushed a kiss against the bright gold of her wedding band.

She blushed prettily. "I'll be along presently."

The clock downstairs chimed, echoing in the silence. The master and the mistress of the house did nothing to break the stillness, and instead let their touches and glances communicate better than any words. A kiss became a question, a sigh the answer, and so they passed the watches of the night until the gray light of dawn slipped around the edges of the window shade.

Mary was dozing lightly against her husband's shoulder when she felt something wet, like a drop of rain, fall on her cheek. She stirred and looked up to see her husband staring at the ceiling. Tears were welling in his eyes, and it was one of these tears that had escaped the confines of his lashes to dampen her face. He made no sound as yet another tear fell, but his throat worked as Mary shifted against him. He closed his eyes, the motion pushing twin droplets down his face.

"Tell me," he said in a tight whisper. "Tell me how it is that I can be glad to be alive, while he is dead?"

"I don't know," Mary answered. She wiped his tears away with gentle fingers. "It is the way of mankind, I suppose. When we are faced with death, it makes us ever more determined to hold on to life."

He opened his eyes and turned his face to hers, reading nothing but love and deepest sympathy in his wife's serene expression. "If only I could be contented with that."

She rose up on her elbows, her hair falling around them like a curtain. "In time, you will be." She dipped her head to touch his lips with her own. "Sleep now, my dear."

Sheltered in his wife's embrace, John Watson slept.


	2. Home

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House. _

Part 2: Home

_Nor need we power or splendor, wide hall or lordly dome;  
The good, the true, the tender -- these form the wealth of home._

_--Sarah J. Hale_

"I do wish Mr. 'olmes would hurry back," Billy said one drizzly morning early in May.

Mrs. Hudson had set him to polishing the silver while she tidied the pantry, and she glanced back at him over her shoulder. "I should think you would welcome the chance to rest a bit," she remarked, "what with Mr. Holmes sending you all over Christendom at all hours of the day and night."

"That's just it, mum! There's always something exciting going on when Mr. 'olmes is on a case. Since he's been away it's just been so…so _boring_," Billy fretted, pent-up energy lending him a renewed vigor as he attacked a stubborn bit of tarnish with a smudged rag.

"The next time you lack excitement, Master William, remind me to send _you_ up with the tray when Mr. Holmes is busy putting bullet pocks in the plaster." She turned in time to see Billy's eyes go round as saucers, and she chuckled. "Don't you worry, laddie. He'll be back soon enough, and if I know Mr. Holmes, adventure will be following close behind him."

It had indeed been very quiet without her bachelor tenant, she thought, turning back to the tins and boxes, and for a while it had been a mercy not to have to traipse up and down the stairs ten times a day. However, as the days went on, she found she could not wholly disagree with Billy's complaint; there was something almost forlorn about the room without the presence of its master, and she did not linger there except to deliver the daily post.

Mrs. Hudson sighed softly, remembering how the house had stood so empty and silent after her husband's death. She remembered, too, how reluctant she had been to take in lodgers, but her financial situation had soon rendered that question academic. One morning not long after she had put the advertisement in the paper, she had answered the bell to find a neatly dressed young man standing on the doorstep.

"_Good morning, madam," the young man said politely, tipping his smart felt hat to her. "Are you Mrs. Jane Hudson?"_

"_I am. And you are…?"_

_A smile creased his lean face. "My name is Holmes—Sherlock Holmes," he said. "I saw your advertisement in the newspaper for rooms to let. I apologize for not making an appointment, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I might inquire directly."_

_He seemed a quiet, studious sort, with eyes as grey as the fog on the coast of her native Scotland, and she found herself taking an immediate liking to him. "Of course," she replied. "The rooms are on the first floor, if you'd like to have a look 'round."_

_A few moments later, they were standing at the door to the study. "This was my late husband's study," she explained, unlocking the door with a tasseled iron key. "The bedroom just beyond was also his, as he sometimes kept late hours when he was working." She swung open the door. "There you are. I'm afraid the furniture is mostly odds and ends, but they're all of the best quality."_

"_After you, madam." The young man gestured for her to go in ahead of him, and then followed her into the room. His grey gaze darted from corner to corner, taking in all the dimensions of the light-filled space. "Yes," he said under his breath. "Yes, it will do nicely indeed." He whipped around to face her with a broad smile. "If it pleases you, madam, I will take it." His happy expression melted slightly. "However…such a charming castle must command a princely sum."_

_Reminding herself that the rent would make up what her husband's pension did not, she boldly named her price. She knew it was slightly more than some of the other landlords in the area charged, but she had resolved herself to standing firm._

_He stood silent for a moment after her announcement, then brought out a pocket watch and read the time. He replaced the watch in his waistcoat pocket, and turned to her with a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "I wonder, madam, if it would not be too much of an imposition if I could have the rest of today to think about it? Of course, if you find someone who will put the money in your hand between now and then, you have only to send word and I will once again take up my quest."_

"_Of course, Mr. Holmes. Where may I reach you?"_

_He took a silver card case from his inside coat pocket. "You can send word to me care of St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I am working in the lab there at present." He handed her the card so she could clearly read 'Sherlock Holmes, Esq.' printed in elegant black type on the thin white cardboard._

_Mrs. Hudson took the card from his gloved fingers. "You are a medical student, then, Mr. Holmes?"_

_Amusement flickered across his lean features. "I must be, since an established doctor could no doubt afford your price without hesitation," he murmured, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. "Was that your line of thinking, madam?"_

"_I beg your pardon, Mr. Holmes, I meant no insult by it—"_

_He held up a hand, cutting her off in mid-sentence. "None taken, dear lady, I assure you." He smiled and pocketed his card case. "I have been known to answer to the description of a medical student, but in truth I am not. I prefer to classify myself as a student of life." He tipped his hat to her. "Good day to you, Mrs. Hudson."_

"_Good day, Mr. Holmes."_

_With regret welling in her heart, she saw him out. Much to her surprise, he stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the street, and she watched in curiosity as he stepped back to look up at the building. He stayed in that posture for several seconds, and then a wide grin spread slowly across his face. He jogged back to where she stood in wonderment on the stoop._

"_Mrs. Hudson," he blurted, grey eyes alight. "Would I be correct in saying that you are also in possession of the third floor of this building?"_

"_Yes, but it's only two rooms. I do a little sewing, and I keep my machine and my dressmakers' forms in the larger room. The other I have used in the past as a guest room, but as it's on the top floor I'm afraid it's not a very welcoming one."_

_If he had heard her concerns, he showed no sign. "Madam, I thank you. Now there is no doubt in my mind that I shall see you very soon. Au revoir."_

Deep within happy memories, Mrs. Hudson chuckled to herself. No one else had answered the advertisement, and so it was that Mr. Holmes called again the next day—this time, accompanied by a young man with a tanned face and a pronounced limp.

"_Mrs. Hudson," said Mr. Holmes with a nod toward his shorter companion, "may I present Dr. John Watson, late of Her Majesty's Army by way of Afghanistan and India. Watson, this is Mrs. Hudson, the gracious and charming landlady of 221B Baker Street."_

_The young doctor smiled behind his neatly trimmed mustache, revealing waves of sandy hair as he tipped his stylish bowler hat to her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am," he said, his blue eyes bright and clear. "I came to hear about Holmes'…ah, predicament… through a mutual acquaintance." He glanced at his partner in crime, who shrugged. "I should very much like to see the room on the third floor; Holmes tells me it's quite cosy."_

_She looked at them for a moment. The doctor had a kind spirit, she could see that much right now, but there was a glint in Mr. Holmes' grey eyes that spoke of one who easily encouraged another into mischief. Mrs. Hudson smiled inwardly; God alone knew what was in store for all of them should she let these two under her roof, but it would most likely never be dull._ _Before she could answer, Dr. Watson's gaze flicked to that of his friend in silent communication. _

"_Think of it, Mrs. Hudson!" Mr. Holmes enthused. "You shall have your price and perhaps a trifle more, as I believe Her Majesty is still inclined to look after the welfare of those wounded in her service." His eyes glittered in triumph. "Are we all agreed, then?"_

With that, the matter was settled. Dr. Watson had a meager amount of luggage and was able to move in that afternoon, but Mr. Holmes—and his jumble of trunks and portmanteaus—were delayed until the next day.

Starting on another section of the cluttered closet, Mrs. Hudson let her mind drift back to those first few months after Mr. Sherlock Holmes, Esq. and Dr. John Watson took possession of the rooms at 221-B. She found that her lodgers immediately filled the shelves with an extraordinary collection of books, but she greeted the chemistry setup—particularly the Bunsen burner—with not a little dismay. When she was duly reassured that every precaution would be taken against fire, she reluctantly agreed to let the jumble of glass tubing occupy the corner nearest the window. However, adjusting to a strange assortment of furnishings had been an easy task compared to adjusting to the different facets of Mr. Holmes' personality.

_One evening, she was just about to turn down the lights when she heard violin music emanating from her newly rented rooms. She ascended the stairs, intending to say goodnight and to see if there was anything either of her new tenants needed before she went to bed, and to her surprise the door was ajar. She raised her hand to knock, but the music stopped immediately._

"_Come in, Mrs. Hudson."_

_She did as he bade. "Good evening, Mr. Holmes. I was just about to turn in and I thought I'd come in and see if you or the doctor needed anything."_

_Her tenant, who had been reclining on the sofa in worn brown velvet slippers, a grayish-brown dressing gown and gray trousers, removed the violin from under his chin and sat up. "That's kind of you, Mrs. Hudson, but Watson is already abed and I am perfectly content to 'scrape carelessly' on my violin, as he so fondly refers to my musical efforts." He rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, which did nothing to hide the fond grin that flit over his face when he mentioned his fellow lodger._

"_Well, I thought it was lovely." Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes." She turned to go._

"_Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson."_

_At the door, she paused and turned to see him with the bow poised above the strings. "Mr. Holmes?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_I'm very curious to know--how on earth did you know it was I?"_

_He flashed a charming grin. "I have noted how your footsteps sound when you come up the stairs," he said, with a twinkle in his fog-grey eyes. "You always pause just slightly on the tenth step. Perhaps that is where you and the late Mr. Hudson always said your goodnights?"_

_She realized he must have misread the astonishment on her face, for his countenance darkened as he hurried to set aside the violin and bow. "That was thoughtless of me," he murmured, rising with catlike grace to stand before her. "I did not intend to remind you of your grief, dear lady."_

_She smiled up at him. "No, Mr. Holmes, you did nothing wrong. The memories are now but bittersweet. Though I wonder—how did you ever guess? It's as if you read my mind."_

_He returned her smile, albeit a trifle sadly. "There is no light at that point on the stairs, so you could not have stopped to turn down a lamp. There is no vantage point to any window, so that could not be the reason, either. No, for you to stop on that step every time on your way up without fail must have some other significance, and since you told me this room used to be your husband's study—and my room, his personal chamber—I came to my ultimate conclusion with no guesswork involved at all."_

Looking back, it really had come as no surprise that Mr. Holmes eventually put his talents to use in a reasonably gainful method of employment, and it was even less of a surprise that Dr. Watson joined in these efforts. Invariably, such goings-on brought a cast of varied characters around to her formerly quiet door, and Mrs. Hudson smiled in fond remembrance of her first encounter with one such character.

_One evening, a short, sallow-skinned man with a sharp, rat-like face called at the house, one of Mr. Holmes' cards clutched in his thin fingers._

"_Good evening, ma'am," the little man had said, tipping his hat. "Is Mr. Holmes in?"_

_Something about the man put her on edge, and she kept her hand on the doorknob. "Who may I say is calling?" she asked._

"_Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, on a matter of serious police business. It's most urgent that I speak with him."_

_She squared her shoulders and raised her chin slightly. "Is Mr. Holmes in some sort of trouble, Inspector?"_

_Lestrade let out a high, tinny laugh. "Oh, no, ma'am! It's just that Mr. Holmes has helped us out once or twice, and I ran across something the other day that might interest him."_

It had been quite late when she let Lestrade out into the foggy night, but as she cleared the dishes the next morning, Mr. Holmes did his best to reassure her.

"_I have assisted Inspector Lestrade with several particularly trying problems as of late," said the amateur detective, while the corners of his sandy-haired shadow's blue eyes crinkled in amusement. "No doubt you'll be seeing quite a lot of him, Mrs. Hudson." Her lodgers shared a hearty laugh at this, and they were still chuckling to themselves when she left to take the tray downstairs._

Lestrade was not the only one to avail themselves of Mr. Holmes' services, and the waves of humanity that had washed up on her doorstep were of the vast variety of life in a great metropolis. High-born ladies and gentlemen, rough laborers and women of questionable morals—all seemed to know that the address of the highest court of appeal for their particular problem was the first-floor sitting room of 221-B Baker Street.

Mrs. Hudson laughed silently to herself; Dr. Watson had not been the only one pressed hastily into service over the years. Many a night had seen her bustling down to the telegraph office on the corner, thrilling at the thought that a human life was to be saved—or ended in a swift fall of justice—by the words on the hastily scribbled note clutched in her hand. Then there was the small army of raggedy boys—the 'Irregulars' as Mr. Holmes called them—who were often dispatched to seek out some infamous person or bit of lurid gossip at the behest of their gray-eyed commander-in-chief, and their assistance often proved quite timely in many of Mr. Holmes' cases.

It was at the end of one of those cases that Dr. Watson, bursting with pride and happiness, announced he was to be married. Mrs. Hudson remembered Miss Morstan, and was delighted to hear of how the young lady charmed Dr. Watson with her pluck and spirit under the most trying of circumstances. While overjoyed for the doctor and his bride-to-be, Mrs. Hudson worried how the news would affect her other tenant, whose misogynist attitude was already legendary. Indeed, the spring weather that had lightly turned Dr. Watson's fancy to thoughts of love only seemed to inspire his friend to staunchly remain a bachelor.

_It was a lovely Sunday afternoon, but Sherlock Holmes had stayed indoors all day in his dressing-gown and slippers. With a bounce in his step and a dreamy smile upon his face, Dr. Watson went to meet his fiancée for a stroll in the park, leaving his friend to brood. As Mrs. Hudson cleared away the barely-touched tea, she darted a glance at the detective, and a frown creased her brow as she watched him puffing away on his pipe. The yellow-gray clouds that wreathed his head filled the room with a distorting haze._

"_It's wonderful to see the good doctor in such high spirits," she mused into the smoky silence. "His young lady is so kind and gentle—aye, they're lucky to have found each other! Don't you think so, Mr. Holmes?"_

"_Hnnn."_

_She folded the napkin he had carelessly tossed over his teacup. "I remember when my Matthew used to call for me of a Sunday afternoon. Makes one wistful for simpler days."_

"_Present company excepted, women only complicate matters," drawled the man slumped in the chair. "I would have thought our lives were complicated enough without the addition of the female of the species to the equation." He sank deeper into the chair. "Apparently not."_

_Mrs. Hudson suppressed a sigh. "Surely that won't keep you from the wedding, will it, Mr. Holmes? After all, Dr. Watson asked you to be his best man. You wouldn't shirk that duty, would you?"_

_The reluctant best man raised his head just enough to fix her with a half-lidded gray gaze. "Mrs. Hudson," he began in a piquant tone, "I am quite capable of leaving off my personal views for a time to put on the requisite morning-coat. Since you are so enthusiastic to see me wear that particular garment, I shall therefore enlist you to see that it is cleaned. The doctor and I may have a difference of opinion where women are concerned, but I would not risk overwhelming his bride with the smell of camphor."_

The blackest day had come when Dr. Watson had readied his belongings to move to where he and his bride would set up housekeeping in Paddington, and Mrs. Hudson remembered well the emotion played out on that bittersweet afternoon.

"_Well, I'm all set," Dr. Watson said with a too-bright smile. His friend lingered at the window, pipe in hand and his face turned toward the street. Mrs. Hudson tied the twine on the last bundle of medical texts and placed the books with their fellows on top of a battered steamer trunk. The front bell clanged, and Dr. Watson threw a pained look at the silent detective._

_It did not take extraordinary powers of deduction to know that the two old comrades needed a moment to themselves. "I'll get that. No doubt it's the moving men," Mrs. Hudson said, and bustled downstairs. When she returned a few minutes later, the tension in the room had lessened considerably, and Dr. Watson stood aside to let the movers pick up the trunks and crates._

"_Careful with that one," he warned as they shouldered a crate marked FRAGILE. "It contains sensitive medical equipment." After seeing to the crate's safe departure down the seventeen steps, Dr. Watson turned to Mrs. Hudson and kissed her cheek._

"_I'll be 'round to check on you both, so I won't say goodbye—merely 'farewell' until we meet again." He grinned at her, and she did her best to smile. "Holmes, I trust you won't give this dear lady any trouble in my absence."_

_His friend looked worn, but his expression was one of kind indulgence. "No more than usual, I assure you."_

_Dr. Watson raised an eyebrow. "Yes, that's what I'm afraid of."_

Behind her, Billy began to whistle a haunting, melancholy tune her tenant had often played on the violin, and the eerie music sent a cold chill down her spine. The music only served to underline the uneasiness she had not been able to shake since her longtime lodger had left a week ago Friday. She shuddered, remembering the man who had called on Mr. Holmes that morning.

_The man was tall and pale and thin, but where leanness on Mr. Holmes suggested a highly trained greyhound ready for the gun, it gave a mean, pinched look to the man standing on the doorstep._

"_Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes in today, madam?" His words were pleasant enough as he doffed his high silk hat to her, but it seemed as if his steel-grey gaze pierced her very soul. "I must speak with him urgently."_

"_Yes," she heard herself say. "However, he is just returned from a long journey and I do not think he is receiving—"_

_The man's features betrayed no emotion, but he shoved her aside with an arm of iron. _

_Gasping in shock, she turned just in time to see the man's rounded back as he strode up the stairwell to the first landing. Finally, she found her voice. "But you cannot go up there, sir!" She protested loudly, hoping her shrill warning would reach Mr. Holmes. _

_The grim-faced man made no reply, but turned back to look at her over one rounded shoulder. He shook his head slowly from side to side, reminding her of a cobra ready to strike. Landlady and intruder glowered at each other for a moment, and then the man entered the study without incident and closed the door behind him._

_She tried to tell herself it was foolish to worry; surely Mr. Holmes had faced greater dangers on the streets of London than anything presented in his own sitting room. However, Mrs. Hudson could not bring herself to move, and she stood at the foot of the stairs, listening intently for any sound of trouble._

_She was still standing there five minutes later when suddenly the door to the sitting room flew open. The older man stormed through the door, his features twisted into a mask of hate, and Mrs. Hudson felt her blood turn to ice. Had she unwittingly answered the ring of someone who wished revenge upon Mr. Holmes? With a dozen terrible scenarios flashing through her mind, she was about to run for the nearest policeman when she heard her tenant's voice. _

"_You have paid me several compliments, Mr. Moriarty," snapped Mr. Holmes. "Let me pay you one in return when I say that if I were assured of the former eventuality I would, in the interests of the public, cheerfully accept the latter."_

_The stoop-shouldered man stiffened in anger. "I can promise you the one," he snarled, "but not the other!" He slammed the door hard enough to shake the house, and Mrs. Hudson gave the man a wide berth as she opened the front door. The man exited the house without looking back, and Mrs. Hudson shut the door as soon as he was over the threshold._

Shortly thereafter, Mr. Holmes had descended the stairs, looking for all the world like a gentleman going about his daily business, but she noticed the pinched look around the bridge of his fine aristocratic nose. Something tore at her to remember him on that morning—pale and yet handsome in his way, tall and lean in his smart black suit, with his silk hat shining from its perch on his brilliantine hair.

"_I've business in town today, Mrs. Hudson," he called, swinging his silver-topped cane gently from his gloved fingers. "In all probability, I won't be back until well after teatime."_

"_Very good, Mr. Holmes." She saw him out, wiping her hands on her apron. "You take care out on those mean streets."_

_He turned sharply and flashed a smile at her, then turned back just as quickly and disappeared into the bustle of Baker Street._

In truth, she had not been surprised when he did not come home in time for supper. It was not unusual for him to come and go at all hours—the years of his and Dr. Watson's adventures had taught her that—but on that night, she could not settle back into her chair.

_The book she had been reading suddenly seemed to be full of vapid prose, and she clapped it shut in frustration. Her knitting was an exercise in tedium, solitaire an endless drudge, and so she decided to take herself off to bed._

_She knocked gently on Billy's door, ready to confiscate his book and insist he put out his light, but the boy was already asleep, his lamp dark and his book lying closed beside it. With a final glance at the window and a mental notation of the doors and windows she had fastened earlier that evening, Mrs. Hudson climbed into bed and put out her lamp._

_She had been dreaming of chasing Mr. Holmes through a thick, wet fog when a sharp echo of sound jolted her awake. What was that noise? She wondered, sitting up. She was listening so intently that she nearly jumped out of her skin when someone tapped at her door. _

"_Missus!" It was Billy, and her heart slowed a fraction. "I heard a noise, mum—upstairs, in Mr. 'olmes' room!"_

_Mrs. Hudson pulled on her dressing gown, struck a light, and joined Billy in her sitting room. "I heard it too," she breathed._

_Billy shook his head gravely. "I don't think it were Mr. 'olmes neither."_

_The feeling of restless dread she had felt earlier in the evening came back fourfold. "He wouldn't—" _

_Her words ended abruptly in a cough as something tickled at the back of her throat, and Billy sneezed. Landlady and errand boy exchanged a horrified glance, and they hurried out of the flat and into the foyer._

_A thin waterfall of grey smoke was tumbling down the stairs from under the door to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson turned on her heel and raced back to get the pitcher of water from her washstand while Billy tore open the front door._

"_FIRE!" he bellowed, his voice a whipcrack of authority that belied his young years. "FIRE! FIRE!"_

_Through the roaring in her ears, Mrs. Hudson vaguely heard the call repeated from a dozen windows. She gathered up her skirts and ran as fast as she dared up to the landing, trying not to slosh all the water out of her pitcher as she went. Pulling a fold of her dressing gown over her nose, she opened the door and charged into the smoky room._

_The window blind was in two curled-edge swags, set ablaze by a rag-wrapped brick that had made a jagged mess of the far window. The brick had come to rest on the desk and bits of the burning rag were spreading tongues of flame into a sheaf of papers, but the fire died a smoldering death as she slung a sparkling curve of water on the burning paper. She doused the blinds with the rest of the water, and then tossed the pitcher through the window with a cacophonous crash. The reek of charred paper was everywhere, and the room spun dizzily as she forced herself to breathe great gulps of fresh air._

_Then the fire brigade—sturdy lads in blue with gold helmets—was upon her, and suddenly she found herself lying on Mr. Holmes' bed._

"_Are you all right, mum?" One of the uniformed men crouched down beside her, looking intently into her face. "The smoke must have gotten to you, there for just a minute." He helped her to sit up and put a glass containing a finger's-worth of brandy in her hand. "Drink that down, mum. It'll do you good."_

_Stunned past any protest, she did so. "What happened?" She asked breathlessly, her throat scorched by brandy as well as smoke._

"_Someone's idea of a prank," said one of the other firemen, coming over with a blackened brick that dripped sooty water. "One that'll land the blackguard in the dock for arson— if he's ever caught, that is."_

_Billy appeared at the doorway, relief written across his face. "You're all right, mum?" he asked._

"_Yes, I'm all right, though I can't say the same for the window, or Mr. Holmes' papers." The fire fighter who had given her the brandy helped her to stand and guided her into the sitting room. She watched in dread fascination as the rest of the fire brigade cleaned up the burned papers and ripped down the damaged blinds. Inexplicably, the face of the stoop-shouldered man flashed in her mind's eye. "Something tells me, gentlemen," she murmured, "that you will never catch the rascal that set it."_

"_Leave that to me," said a familiar voice, and Mrs. Hudson turned to see Inspector Lestrade standing in the doorway, his dark eyes glittering like obsidian in his sallow face._

_Mr. Holmes did not return the next day, and the night after the fire found Mrs. Hudson once again unable to concentrate on her book or her needlework. Rising from her chair, she went into her room and pulled open the bottom drawer of her bureau. Pushing aside the linens in the drawer, she brought out a smoothly polished wood box and set it on the dressing table. Without hesitation, she opened the box to reveal her husband's revolver, and she boldly seized the weapon from its nest of worn red velvet. Years before, Matthew had taken her out to a country lane and showed her how to load the gun, and a frisson of dread shivered up her arm as she remembered the jarring kick the weapon had made in her hand._

_Thus armed, Jane Hudson kept vigil in her sitting room until dawn streaked the sky._

The sound of the front bell was the call to action, making her abandon the disturbing memories. Billy jumped to his feet with a glad cry. "I'll get it!" he crowed, tossing his blackened rag on the table.

"You go on with your polishing, laddie," Mrs. Hudson instructed, much to the boy's chagrin. "I'll see to the door."

"Aw," Billy complained, but he resumed his task as Mrs. Hudson left the kitchen. She opened the door to find a liveried telegram delivery boy waiting on the step.

The boy handed over the small yellow envelope in exchange for her few bits of silver, then tugged at his cap and was on his way again. Mrs. Hudson slipped the telegram into the front pocket of her apron and bent down to retrieve the morning paper from the front stoop. As usual, she took both paper and telegram up the stairs to the cheerfully cluttered room and laid them on the growing pile of mail and newsprint weighing down the deal table. As she laid aside the paper, she noticed that the headline was printed in large, black block letters: –_LMES_

Mrs. Hudson's heart gave a great thud in her chest, and her skin crawled with icy prickles of dread. With trembling hands, she lifted the paper and spread it out so the entire headline was visible.

_SHERLOCK HOLMES DEAD_

_GREAT DETECTIVE LOST IN RAGING WATERFALL_

"Oh, no," she breathed, sinking slowly to one of the straight-backed chairs. Her hand fell against her apron pocket, and she glanced down through tear-blurred vision as something crackled under her hand. _The telegram! _She brought it out and turned it over, only to find it was not addressed to Mr. Holmes, as she had originally assumed, but to herself.

Moving to the mantel as she had seen Holmes do time and again, Mrs. Hudson retrieved the wickedly sharp jackknife and slit open the yellow envelope. Replacing the knife, she pulled the telegram from its confines and read the few scant lines.

_MEIRINGEN VILLAGE_

_SWITZERLAND_

_5 MAY_

_MRS HUDSON STOP TERRIBLE TRAGEDY STOP HOLMES LOST OVER REICHENBACH FALLS YESTERDAY STOP WILL BE STAYING FOR INQUEST STOP WILL RETURN AS SOON AS AM ABLE STOPAM TELEGRAPHING MYCROFT STOP FOLLOW HIS INSTRUCTIONS STOP J WATSON END_

She read the words over twice to fix the details in her mind, then carefully folded the paper back into its envelope and slipped it back into her apron. Standing shakily to her feet, she wandered to the middle of the room and brushed her fingertips against the smooth wood frame of the wicker-backed easy chair. She lingered for some moments, her hands plumping by habit the worn velvet cushion that rested against the hard woven chair back. Slowly, she walked to the bedroom doorway and let her gaze touch each of the familiar things in turn.

A bright gleam caught her attention, and she was startled to see her own grieving face reflected in the shaving mirror on the dressing table. Pulling her handkerchief from her pocket, she draped the white square over the round frame.

The mouse-colored dressing gown hung on its peg by the door. Following an impulse she could not name, she gathered the fabric in her hands and buried her face in it. Even after a laundering and long weeks hanging unused, the garment still retained the scent of its owner, a mixture of shag tobacco and sandalwood soap.

Her hands still pressing the fabric to her face, Mrs. Hudson sank to the carpet, sobbing bitterly.


	3. Brother

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House._ Thanks to beboparia for the poetry reference.

Part 3: Brother

_The autumn leaves are falling like rain.  
Although my neighbors are all barbarians  
And you, you are a thousand miles away  
There are always two cups at my table._  
-T'ang Dynasty poem

_5 May 1891_

"Will that be all, sir?"

Watson blinked, looking at the telegraph office clerk as if seeing him for the first time. "I beg your pardon?"

"Will you be sending any more telegrams, sir?" The clerk asked in heavily accented English, peering out from under his green visor.

Watson felt as if his head were full of cotton wool. "Ah—how many are there so far?"

The clerk consulted his receipt book. "Two—one to Frau Hudson and one to Frau Watson."

"Yes, of course." Watson nodded. "In that case, I need to send one more, please."

"Very good, sir." The clerk placed a blank telegram form on the counter. The doctor hesitated for a long moment, pencil poised above the paper. "Are you all right, sir?" asked the clerk, concerned at the deep sorrow etched on Watson's face.

"I am the bearer of bad news," Watson murmured, his eyes on the expanse of yellow paper before him. "I confess I do not know quite how to begin." He sighed. "No doubt you've heard that hundreds of times."

"I have indeed, sir." Still Watson hesitated, and the clerk cleared his throat. "If you will permit me, sir—a word of advice?" Watson glanced up, and the clerk took it as silent permission to continue. "Write quickly, and do not look back until you reach the end."

The doctor mulled this over, and then nodded. "Thank you." He turned his attention to the paper and began to write with quick, bold strokes.

* * *

At the discreet cough that sounded to his left, Mycroft Holmes glanced up from the brief he was reading to see Grayson, one of the Diogenes Club's faithful stewards, standing a few feet away. Grayson held a yellow telegram envelope in his hand, and raised an eyebrow in question when he had caught Mycroft's eye. Laying aside the brief, Mycroft waved him over. Grayson gave the envelope into Mycroft's hands, revealing the word 'URGENT' stamped in red on the paper.

Mycroft reached into his pocket and withdrew his penknife, silently slit the envelope and then settled his attention on the half-sheet the envelope contained. As usual, Grayson hovered a respectful distance away, ready to take a reply if necessary.

Instantly, the color drained from Mycroft's face, and the steward hurried over in alarm.

"Sir! Are you all right?" Grayson dared to raise his voice to a stage whisper, an exception made only for the gravest of emergencies.

Mycroft tore his attention from the telegram to stare at Grayson, who himself blanched under the piercing storm-grey gaze. With a swiftness of movement that Grayson had rarely seen displayed by the heavyset founder of the club, Mycroft launched his bulk from his chair and quit the hall, leaving the hapless steward scrambling to keep up. With their footfalls ringing like cannon fire in the silence, they did not slacken their pace until they reached the Stranger's Room. After following Mycroft into the book-lined chamber, Grayson hurried to shut the door behind them.

"When did this arrive?" Mycroft snarled, brandishing the telegram in his fist.

"No more than two minutes ago, sir." Grayson' voice was still no louder than a murmur; though at the moment it had more to do with Mycroft's disquieting display than years of training. "Shall I go and fetch the boy back?"

"He was only the end link in a long chain. There would be little point in questioning him." Mycroft sighed explosively. "Blast it all!"

Grayson allowed himself a tiny frown; whatever the telegram contained had shaken Mycroft—usually the most unexcitable of individuals—down to the core. "Bad news, sir?" he ventured.

With the telegram still clutched in his right hand, Mycroft wandered across the room, his substantial shadow falling across the parquet floor. He stopped at the tall library ladder positioned on the left side of the bank of windows and wrapped his thick fingers around the handrail. "My brother is dead," he said in a hollow voice.

Grayson felt a sharp pang of sympathy for the man he had long served. It had been some time since Mycroft's brother had visited the club, but Grayson remembered being impressed by what he had seen of the younger man's cleverness and energy. It was indeed a shame that such a bright candle had been snuffed out forever. "Is there anything I may do for you, sir?" the steward asked quietly.

"Yes." Mycroft did not turn from the windows. "You can get the messenger boy back after all. I will be dispatching several telegrams in a short while."

Grayson nodded, relieved to be of use. "At once, sir," he said, then turned and hurried out of the Stranger's Room on silent feet.

Mycroft waited until the door had closed behind Grayson and the footsteps retreated into the distance. With a sigh, he laboriously climbed the steps of the library ladder and sat on the top step, gazing out of the window at the busy neighborhood. Two young boys gamboled past, the younger one's hand safely entwined in that of the older boy. He followed the children's progress along the street until they were out of sight, and then turned back to the telegram in his hand.

_MEIRINGEN VILLAGE_

_SWITZERLAND_

_5 MAY_

_MR MYCROFT HOLMES_

_C/O DIOGENES CLUB_

_PALL MALL_

_TERRIBLE TRAGEDY STOP SHERLOCK HOLMES LOST OVER REICHENBACH FALLS YESTERDAY STOP STAYING FOR INQUEST STOP BACK IN LONDON NEXT WEEK STOP MAY I CALL THEN QUERY DEEPEST CONDOLENCES STOP JOHN WATSON END_

Mycroft folded the telegram and slipped it into his pocket. "Sherlock," he murmured, his water-pale eyes filling with sudden tears. "Oh, Sherlock."

Nearly two weeks had passed since that late April morning, but Mycroft could still recall his surprise at hearing the landlady announce that Mr. Sherlock Holmes was asking to see him. That singular event was enough to start a warning trill of alarm within Mycroft; he could count on one hand the number of times they had been under that particular roof together. However, at the sight of Sherlock's pale, drawn face and haunted flint-colored eyes, alarm turned to genuine brotherly concern. One look told Mycroft that it was best to have Sherlock sit down before he fell down, and went to pour them both a glass of port.

"_The situation is quickly becoming intolerable," Sherlock said, settling gratefully into one of the overstuffed chairs in Mycroft's flat. His hands, Mycroft noticed, were shaking as he accepted the glass._

_Mycroft returned to the sideboard to pour his own glass. "You were wise to come here, Sherlock."_

_The younger man ran a fingertip along the edge of the glass, making the crystal chime an eerie note. "Even now, the ring closes 'round me, and there is no escape," he muttered darkly._

_The elder Holmes replaced the stopper on the port with a sharp clink. "Well then, perhaps you should leave Moriarty to those more suited to the task." _

_Sherlock banged the heavy cut-crystal glass down on the table. "Don't shilly-shally around with me, Mycroft. Say what you mean."_

"_What I am saying is that your enthusiasm has outstripped your abilities," Mycroft replied. "Moriarty's crimes are out of your milieu." He sipped from his glass. _

_Astonishment was plain on the younger man's face. "Out of my—" _

"_I suggest you bow out while you still can, Sherlock."_

"_If indeed I should 'bow out' now," Sherlock said coldly, "the fact remains that I have given all of you ample time to act, and yet you have not!"_

_Mycroft's glass nearly shattered from its forceful return to its place on the sideboard. "Tread lightly, Sherlock, I warn you!"_

"_I would hate very much to think that innocent lives were spent waiting for your all-important word!" A pinched look appeared around the bridge of Sherlock's aquiline nose, making his face into a bloodless mask. "When will it finally be enough, Mycroft? Will my death at Moriarty's hands finally be the necessary impetus?" _

_The grizzled grey brows of the elder Holmes drew together sharply, and his eyes flashed silver fire. "Sherlock, it is only because you are under considerable strain that I am prepared to forgive your obscene lapse of judgment. However," he breathed, "I will not afford you such grace a second time."_

_The younger man studied the carpet silently, the knotting of his jaw the only clue as to the effort spent reining in his temper. "You know I speak the truth," the amateur consulting detective said softly, his eyes still on the intricate Turkish design underfoot. "Moriarty has thrown the gauntlet at my feet and I intend to take it up." He raised his head to fix Mycroft with a steady gaze the color of a winter sky. "I could ask for no greater honor than to rid this world of his evil."_

_Mycroft stared at his brother with a mixture of pride and disbelief. "Sherlock, I cannot let you do this." He shook his head, seeing their dying mother's feverish face before him once again. "Long ago, I promised Maman that I would look after you."_

_His brother's eyes clouded over with pain. Invoking their mother's name had been a low blow, and both knew it. "I believe I have more than proved that I am quite capable of looking after myself." Sherlock ground the words out from deep in his throat. "If I was not, this morning's mischief would have ensured that I would at this very moment be on the slab covered in hoof prints or with my skull bashed in."_

_The mental pictures of both scenarios slithered coldly through Mycroft's brain. "I will concede you have been disgustingly lucky." Two pairs of grey eyes narrowed, one in warning, the other in challenge. "Your John Watson is a married man now, but still you are being reckless with his life," Mycroft continued sharply. "You know that you have but to say the word and he will follow you to the ends of the earth."_

"_He is indeed 'a friend who sticketh closer than a brother,'" Sherlock quoted, his voice low and deadly._

_Mycroft went purple. "I should thrash you for that!"_

"_It would be amusing to see you try."_

_The silent standoff continued for several heartbeats. "Do you see, Mycroft? I cannot leave Watson here, even if I wanted to," Sherlock finally ventured into the tense silence. "It is much too dangerous. Moriarty's men would overtake him, and…" His eyes shuttered closed in horror. "They would do him grievous harm to extort compliance from me."_

_Mycroft remained silent for a moment, hoping to find some flaw, some improbability in Sherlock's argument. To his dismay, there were none. "We have spotted Moriarty's confederates around Dr. Watson's house already," he said gravely, unable to help making one last attempt at swaying his brother from this dread errand. "They wait for you. It is a fixed game."_

_To his surprise, Sherlock smiled. "Well, then. Since the cards are all dealt, I suppose I should not keep them waiting." He took up his glass and drank it to the dregs. "You were right about one thing," he said, carefully replacing the cut crystal glass on the sideboard. "I cannot do this—not alone, anyway." He looked up into his brother's face, his expression more intense than Mycroft had ever seen it. "Please, Mycroft. Will you help me?"_

_Mycroft laid his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you need me to do?"_

As he watched Dr. Watson run at full speed through Lowther Arcade that morning not a fortnight ago, Mycroft knew without doubt that the man was determined to see things through, and that thought alone had been enough to calm some of Mycroft's wrenching despair. Though the loss to the world was incalculable, at least Sherlock had not been alone at the end.

The door opened with the barest whisper of well-oiled hinges as Grayson slipped back into the room. "Sir, the messenger boy is here."

"Good." Mycroft cleared his throat and carefully descended the ladder steps. He gathered up the monocle suspended from his lapel on a gilded chain, and fitted the small circle of glass to his left eye. Crossing to the desk, he took up a pencil and a sheet of notepaper, and wrote a single terse sentence in neat, angular letters. "Here," he said, and gave the paper into Grayson's hand. He removed the monocle and let it fall back against his waistcoat as he walked Grayson to the door. "Tell the boy that this must go with all haste to Dr. Ralf Siemens at the British Embassy in Switzerland and Mr. Charles Campbell at the Home Office. And in reply to Dr. Watson, simply, 'Received your message, come as soon as you are able.'"

"To Dr. Watson: 'Received your message, come as soon as you are able,'" Grayson repeated. "Very good, sir." With a respectful inclination of his head toward Mycroft, Grayson once again was gone like a frock-coated specter.

Mycroft turned back to the windows and slowly climbed the ladder to resume his perch on the top step. The setting sun was turning the clouds into streaks of orange and gold flame in an amethyst sky, and Mycroft sat deep in thought until the lamplighter had passed beneath his window.

Someone knew the truth of what had happened at the falls called Reichenbach, he mused. And even if it took him until the end of his days to find out who that person was, or what they knew, he would find them.


	4. Interlude: Remembrance

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House._ This particular interlude inspired by "Beautiful" from the Sarah Brightman album, "Harem" and the arrangement of "Libera Me" from the _Sherlock Holmes OST._ Thanks as well to the kind folks at the **dispatchbox** LiveJournal for their encouragement.

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

Interlude: Remembrance

Mary woke the morning after her husband's arrival to the sound of rain splashing against the cobblestone street. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she slipped out of bed and wrapped herself in her warm flannel dressing gown. A quick glance between the curtains confirmed her suspicions; John would face a grey and dreary London as he ventured forth later that day.

She let the curtains fall back into place and turned back toward her slumbering husband. She took a few aimless steps toward the bed, hugging her arms about her as if chilled, her pretty face clouded with worry. Could she convince him to stay with her, just for one day? She watched as he moved restlessly in his sleep, listened as half-formed syllables tumbled from his lips, and her heart ached for him.

She crossed to where he lay and smoothed his furrowed brow with a gentle kiss. Whether he knew somehow that she was near and drew comfort from her presence, she wasn't sure, but he immediately calmed beneath her touch.

Mary straightened with a smile and moved to gather up the well-worn suit he had laid on the bedside chair the night before. Out of habit, she checked the pockets before Ivy could collect the suit for washing, and Mary noticed that an inside pocket crackled at her touch. Her questing fingers gently pried out a small packet of thin white paper, much like the leaves of the notebooks John himself favored. She smiled as she remembered watching him laboriously copy his notes onto sheets of foolscap from the penciled scribbles in his book. Sometimes he read bits of his adventures with Mr. Holmes to amuse her, and once again it pained her to think of how those adventures had come to an end.

The papers were tied with a bit of rough twine and were slightly ragged on the edges, and Mary darted a glance at the gently snoring hillock of quilts before undoing the knot. As she unfolded the pages, her breath caught in her chest as she scanned the lines that had been penciled in a clear, firm hand.

_My dear Watson,_

_I write these few lines through the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, who awaits my convenience for the final discussion of those questions which lie between us…_

Mary's lips formed into a silent O of astonishment. This was Mr. Holmes' last missive to his friend—very possibly his last words to the world, she realized—and she shut her eyes to avoid intruding any further on the privacy between the two comrades. After a few steadying breaths, she opened her eyes and carefully refolded the papers, then refastened the twine around the precious bundle. The hem of her gown whispered against the carpet as she crossed to John's side of the bed, and she laid the packet on his nightstand.

Mary washed her face and dressed quickly, then brushed and plaited her waist-length honey-coloured hair. She coiled and pinned the shining tresses in her customary style, and a rosy flush spread under her freckles as she remembered the look of wonder in her husband's eyes when, on their wedding night, she had removed her hairpins and let the heavy braid tumble down her back.

Her toilette completed, she turned in her seat at her vanity to regard her still-sleeping husband. He was so brave, she mused, and yet so kind and gentle. Remembering the night she had stood hand in hand with him at Pondicherry Lodge, she wondered for the thousandth time if something inside of her had instinctively known him to be her champion. She would never have dreamt of telling him, lest he think her given to outlandish fancies, but sometimes she had the feeling that she had known John Watson for a time longer than the life she could remember.

Now as she turned her thoughts to her other champion—the man who had done much to clear the dark clouds surrounding her father's death—Mary wondered if Mr. Holmes and her husband might share the same ageless association. If that were the case, then perhaps the two comrades would meet again on some distant turn of the Wheel. Tears sprang to her blue eyes at the thought of such a joyful reunion, but she just as quickly shook her head as if to clear away those thoughts.

_Listen to yourself, Mary Watson! _She pulled a handkerchief from the top drawer of her vanity and dashed away the tears. _What would John say if he knew you, a Christian woman, were thinking of such things?_

It must have been the years she spent in India, she mused, as she rose from her seat. Truly, the smell of incense in Thaddeus Sholto's house had immediately brought back hazy memories of her Indian nanny, a short, wiry woman with skin the color of rich coffee, draped from head to foot in bright silk. In a letter to her shortly before his death, Captain Morstan had recounted to Mary with amusement how as a very little girl she could chatter in the local vernacular before she learned to speak a single word in the Queen's English. Indeed, one of her earliest memories was of one such conversation with—what _had_ been her name?—and the feeling of understanding that had passed between the Indian woman and the _sahib_'s daughter. Mary had no doubt that the tiny jewel of belief she carried had been set in her young soul by her nanny's work-worn hands, and at this moment, she blessed the woman for it.

A distant church bell tolled nine, and as the sweet, sad notes died away, she made a decision. With barely a rustle of skirts, she left their chamber and quietly closed the door to keep the noises of the waking household at bay for just a little longer. She met Ivy at the foot of the stairs, and laid her hand lightly on the girl's shoulder.

"Ivy," Mary began quietly. "No doubt you know the doctor's just come home from a very long and tiring journey."

The girl nodded. "Yes'm."

"He's still sleeping, but make sure his coffee's ready for when he wakes. I'm going out, but I'll be back in a short while, if he asks."

"Yes'm."

"Thank you. And one other thing: Don't open the door to anyone while I'm gone. I will have my key."

In answer, Ivy dropped her mistress a small curtsey and moved toward the kitchen. Mary went to retrieve her gray hooded cloak and sheer silken veil from the hall. After pulling on her pearl-grey gloves, Mary made sure her key was in her bag and hung her purse on her wrist before venturing out into the drizzly morning.

Luck was on her side; the first cab she raised her hand to pulled up against the kerb, and she managed to bundle herself inside without getting too wet. "St. Mary's of the Angels, please," she called up to the driver, and they were on their way with a clatter of hooves against the cobbles.

* * *

St. Mary's of the Angels was a young church compared to many, having been built less than forty years before, but its stone walls and high, square tower spoke of solidity and permanence. The cabbie scrambled down to hand Mary out of the cab, and after receiving her fare, tipped his hat and went on his way. As the cab pulled away from the kerb, the door of the church swung open, and a young black-cassocked priest hurried down the steps toward Mary with an umbrella.

"Thank you, Father," said Mary, ducking gratefully under the protection of the oilcloth dome.

"You're most welcome, ma'am. Father William, at your service."

"Mary Morstan," she supplied. With the public revelation of Mr. Holmes' death, she was determined to do all she could to give John his privacy—a difficult prospect at times, when one was married to a member of the popular press.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Morstan," the priest replied, as Mary modestly raised her hem to avoid tripping on it as they climbed the rain-slicked steps. "I'm afraid it's not much warmer inside, but at least it's dry." The priest held the door open for Mary, following her as she swept into the narthex with a damp swish of skirts against the flagstones.

As he folded the umbrella and set it in the corner to dry, Fr. William's hazel eyes took in Mary's solemnly cloaked form at a glance. "You are new to our parish?" Raindrops, glistening like spangles, had settled in his dark, neatly trimmed hair, and he brushed them away with a swipe of his hand.

Mary let her hood fall back and raised her veil from her face, letting the sheer grey silk stream from where she had pinned it into her coif. "When I was younger, I was employed as governess for a family who worshipped here. That was many years ago, though I see little has changed." She smiled, glancing around at the stately, well-worn furnishings, and then shifted her attention to the young priest once more. "I've come today on a very specific errand—a rather sad one, I'm afraid."

"I don't mean to pry," said Fr. William kindly. "You may think it odd, Mrs. Morstan, but I was just thinking how the rain makes it seem that whole world is in mourning for Sherlock Holmes."

To Mary, the light from the stained-glass window set in the north wall became jewel-bright as her eyes filled with tears. "It does indeed seem that way," she murmured.

"It sounds silly, doesn't it? Mourning someone you never met," he said, taking her silence as permission to continue. "Perhaps we are mourning not only a particular soul, but the death of an ideal, and the defeat of a champion of the light in an age that grows ever darker. Although I shudder to think what his dear friend Dr. Watson must be going through," he added gravely.

The tears threatened to spill down Mary's cheeks, and she closed her eyes briefly to keep them in. "Dr. Watson must be heartbroken," she whispered.

After taking her leave of the young priest, Mary walked solemnly down the north aisle. When she reached the front pew, it seemed natural to her to sink to one knee for a moment. Rising gracefully, she crossed the wide expanse that led to the north transept, and stopped in front of a rack of votives that cast a brilliant ruby-hued pool of shimmering light at her feet.

It was then that she noticed movement in the choir; a group of priests in black cassocks, trailed by a group of fresh-faced boys in long black robes and crisply starched white surplices, were filing in for choir practice with a shuffling of feet and stifled coughs. Mary stepped back into the shadows, her grey velvet cloak dappled with scarlet as she watched the aged choirmaster make his arthritic progress to his music stand. There was much flipping of pages and nods of assent, but the company stilled as the choirmaster raised his gnarled hand. Quiet settled over the empty church like a gossamer mantle, and then the choir began to sing _a capella_.

"Libera me, Domine, de morte aeterna, in die illa tremenda..." _Deliver me, O Lord, from everlasting death on that dread day…_

"Quando coeli movendi sunt et terra..." …_when the heavens and earth shall quake…_

"Dum veneris judicare saeculum per ignem..." _…__when thou shalt come to judge the world to come…_

As the music soared to the rafters, Mary withdrew a coin from her purse and placed it in the box near the orderly pile of votives. Selecting one of the plump ivory candles, Mary seated it in an empty ruby glass holder and lit it with a spill set aflame from a large beeswax taper that stood nearby. The flame flickered and then caught and held steady, and she blew out the spill.

She watched the tiny flame wink and dance before her, and thought of the sparkle of wit she had seen in Mr. Holmes' eyes as he laughed at the empty box of the Agra treasure.

"Libera me…"

She listened to the solemn, beautiful music, and thought of the rich tones of a solo violin spilling over her and John from the first floor window as they came to call at Baker Street one evening.

"…libera me…"

She caught the traces of incense on the air, and remembered the scent of shag tobacco that lingered on John's coat.

"…libera me…"

Bowing her head over her gloved hands, Mary breathed a prayer for the soul of Sherlock Holmes.


	5. Solace

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House._

Chapter 5: Solace

_Quiet and sincere sympathy is often the most welcome and efficient consolation to the afflicted. Said a wise man to one in deep sorrow, "I did not come to comfort you; God only can do that; but I did come to say how deeply and tenderly I feel for you in your affliction"._

--Tryon Edwards (1809 - 1894)

Watson moved woodenly through the motions of tying his tie, twisting the fabric over and under, and ending in a knot that echoed the one in his stomach. The black tie matched his suit exactly, the deep mourning colour broken only by the crisp whiteness of his shirt and collar. Bits of jet gleamed from his cuffs, and his black shoes gleamed softly from the buffing the housemaid had given them the evening before.

Thoughts of the housemaid at her work begat thoughts of the maid's mistress, and a slight frown marred the blank expression Watson presented to his mirror. Where was Mary?

Upon waking, he had turned to gather his wife into his arms only to find her gone, and for a heart-stopping moment between wakefulness and dreams he was sure he had lost her. Guilt immediately replaced the relief when he remembered that it was Holmes who was gone, and not Mary. Watson buried his face into Mary's pillow, wondering if anyone would mind if he never got out of bed again.

In the end, duty would not permit him to shut the world out, and he had duly risen and went about his morning routine.

Now he turned from his somber reflection and gathered up the items he had removed from his pockets the night before. He picked up his watch, and a smile briefly touched his lips as he ran his thumb over the worn case.

_The W. suggests your own name. The date of the watch is nearly fifty years back, and the initials are as old as the watch: so it was made for the last generation. Jewellery usually descends to the eldest son, and he is most likely to have the same name as the father. Your father has, if I remember right, been dead many years. It has, therefore, been in the hands of your eldest brother._

"Poor Harry," Watson murmured, closing his hand over the watch. It had been a sad day indeed when he had received the message from the Scotland Yard morgue, asking him to come round and identify the body of his older brother, who had been found dead in a cheap boardinghouse. Watson bit back a grimace at the memory; though he had spent days knee-deep in blood and filth on the Afghan campaigns, the reek of stale whiskey that had risen from his brother's bloated form as the sheet was pulled back was enough to turn his stomach.

With a shock, he realized that his grief over losing Holmes was a hundred times greater than what he had felt for Harry or their father, and could only compare to how he had wept at his mother's grave as a child. Guilt stung him for the second time that morning, but this time it vanished in a bright, hot flare of anger.

_I grieved for Harry's wasted life, not the absence of his affection, _he thought, looping his watch chain across the front of his waistcoat and slipping the timepiece into his pocket.

He retrieved his black suit coat from the armoire and shrugged into the tailored garment. A telegram, its edges worn from its journey across the Continent in his jacket pocket, rested on the bureau before him. He scanned the block letters dully, having long since committed the message to memory.

_6 MAY_

_PALL MALL_

_66 LONDON W_

_DR JOHN H WATSON_

_C/O ENGLISCHER HOF_

_MEIRINGEN VILLAGE_

_SWITZERLAND_

_RECEIVED YOUR MESSAGE STOP COME AS SOON AS YOU ARE ABLE STOP MYCROFT HOLMES END_

Leaving the telegram on the bureau, Watson left the bedroom and made his way downstairs. He would go to the Diogenes Club as requested, but there was another errand that was more pressing before his interview with the elder Holmes.

_I have my eye on a suite in Baker Street, which would suit us down to the ground. You don't mind the smell of strong tobacco, I hope?_

With a sigh, the doctor pushed thoughts of the familiar rooms out of his mind for the time being—at least until after breakfast, though he was sure his appetite had not improved greatly since supper the night before.

Ivy was brandishing her feather duster over the furniture in the drawing room when Watson passed the doorway, and the doctor backtracked a few steps. "Ivy, have you seen Mrs. Watson this morning?"

The girl immediately turned from her work to face him, a few stray ostrich feathers floating in the air around her. "Yes, sir. The missus went out early this morning and said to tell you she'd be back soon. She said to have your coffee ready for you, and so it is."

Watson gave the girl a brief smile. "Thank you, Ivy. Coffee—and perhaps some toast—will suit me just fine this morning. I'll be in my consulting room."

Giving a quick little bounce of a curtsey, the maid rustled off toward the kitchen.

Turning down the hallway that led to his consulting room, Watson produced a brass key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Upon entering, he saw that everything was just as it had been the night Holmes had appeared like a specter on his doorstep.

_Yes, I have been using myself up rather too freely…I have been a little pressed of late. Have you any objection to my closing your shutters?_

The shutters were still closed, and he touched the latch that a set of long, white, nervous fingers had fastened, on a night that seemed like a lifetime ago.

_You are afraid of something?_

_Well, I am._

_Of what?_

_Of air-guns._

The bottle of carbolic acid was still on the washstand, with a tuft of cotton wool and a box of sticking plasters close beside. Slowly, he picked up the items and replaced them in the cabinet near the examining table.

_It's not an airy nothing, you see…On the contrary, it is solid enough for a man to break his hand over._

He was startled by a knock at the door. "Come in."

Expertly balancing her burden, Ivy opened the door and brought in a tray large enough to contain the coffee-pot, a single cup accompanied by a plate of toast, the crystal butter dish, and a pot of marmalade. She set the tray down on a small table, and then poured the coffee from the gleaming silver service.

_How did you know what I was doing? I believe you have eyes in the back of your head.  
_

_I have, at least, a well-polished, silver-plated coffee-pot in front of me._

The rattle of china brought him back to the present. "Are you alright, sir?"

Watson looked up to see the maid eyeing him with alarm, as if he might suddenly explode. "Yes, yes, I'm fine." He moved from the cabinet to sit behind his desk. "Thank you, Ivy. You can go now."

The coffee was cold in the cup and the toast was tough and stale when he heard voices in the hallway, and he slowly surfaced from the depths of his musings. There was a gentle knock on the door of his consulting room.

"John? May I come in?"

He rose quickly and went to the door. "Yes, come in, my dear." Mary entered the room, and Watson shut the door behind her. "How glad I am to see you."

She smiled and kissed his cheek. "You make me sound as if I'm one of your patients," she said, seating herself on the chair before his desk. "I do hope this won't be a costly consultation."

He leaned against his desk. "For you, my darling, I am at your disposal free of charge, now and forever." He grinned as she chuckled merrily, but soon they both sobered. "Where did you go so early this morning?" he asked.

His wife's happy glow faded as if a lamp illuminating her features had suddenly been dimmed. "I hope you won't think me foolish, but—I went to St. Mary's of the Angels and lit a candle for Mr. Holmes." Her restless hands sought out the great glass jewel of a paperweight engraved with a caduceus resting on his desk. She toyed with the object for a moment, then replaced it back on the desk and folded her hands in her lap. "I know there won't—can't—be a funeral, but I just felt that _something_ should be done."

Her voice held all the helplessness and frustration that he himself had felt in the days that followed the terrible events at the falls. "There is precious little else we can do," Watson agreed. "One would think it would be easier to not have to go through all those…preparations, but…" He shook his head. "It almost makes it harder, somehow."

Mary withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes, but the tears were coming too fast to be stopped by the dampsquare of lace. "We've no way to say goodbye, really." The honey-gold head bowed and the narrow shoulders shook with quiet sobs.

Watson knelt beside his distraught wife. "Dearest, don't cry." Despite his words, he drew her into his arms and let her do just that. In a few minutes, she lay spent against his dark woolen lapel, and he stroked her hair.

"I'm glad you remembered him," Watson said kindly into a silence broken only by Mary's occasional sniffle. "Holmes was not a sentimental man, as you know, but I believe he would have been pleased to be remembered."

"I know," Mary said thickly, pulling away to accept her husband's handkerchief to take the place of her sodden one. "I'm sorry, John. This must be a dreadfully trying morning for you, and I've made it worse."

"You've done nothing of the sort," her husband reassured her. "On the contrary, you've reminded me that I'm not the only one in this world who mourns him."

"The priest at the church said that the rain made it seem like the whole world was in mourning for Mr. Holmes." She ventured a sad smile. "I'm almost glad there isn't going to be a funeral. I don't think I could bear it."

"Nor could I," Watson murmured, pushing away a vision of a headstone chiseled with _Sherlock Holmes 1852-1891 R.I.P. _"Still, I feel it only right to go see Holmes' elder brother and offer my condolences."

"And you are unsure of what to say." It was not a question, and the doctor smiled grimly.

"Odd, isn't it? I seem to be able to put enough words together for _The Strand_, and yet everything I think to say to Mycroft Holmes sounds insensitive and callous." He stood and wandered to the window. "What can I tell him that will give him any sort of comfort?" He was silent a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper. "Perhaps he will accuse me of…of leaving Holmes to a lonely death."

"No!" Mary shot up out of her chair and crossed the small room with quick strides. "No one can say that." She ducked her head to look into his face, though he tried to turn away. "You had no idea what would happen. You were doing your duty by seeing to a sick woman, and the shame is on those who used your noble profession—and your kind heart—to their own evil purpose."

"But I _knew_, Mary," Watson retorted bitterly. "I knew Moriarty was after us; I'd seen him at Victoria Station. We barely eluded him at Canterbury—we hid like two mice behind a pile of luggage." He blinked back the tears that threatened to fall at any moment. "Holmes was forever telling me how I 'see and yet do not observe.' If I had just for one moment used some of the training he drilled into me time and again, he might be alive."

Mary's slender form went rigid, and she dropped her hands. "When I vowed to be your wife," she said, her eyes flashing blue fire, "it was agreed between us that we could discuss anything—anything at all, as long as it was spoken in love and truth. I trust you will remember that when I tell you that you are _not_, nor have you _ever_ been Sherlock Holmes."

She could see confusion and pain underneath the astonishment in her husband's face, but she pressed on.

"You yourself have said that Mr. Holmes was a singular individual, and that he was, on the whole, immovable once he had decided upon a course of action. You have also told me that he was gifted with a sense of perception that bordered on the supernatural." She paused, making a visible effort to tame her strident tone. "Dearest, what I am trying to say is—do you honestly think for one moment that Mr. Holmes did not know what was to follow?"

"I…" Comprehension dawned in Watson's face, and he gaped at his wife in shock. "No, of _course_ he must have known. Why didn't I see that before?"

Mary laid her head on her husband's shoulder. "You were his friend, John. He never would have allowed harm to come to you, if he could prevent it. That is why he let you go back to the village; he knew you would have tried to help. You might have…you might…" She turned her face into the dark wool, where the fabric soaked up her fresh tears.

The picture of what could have been loomed all too clearly in their minds. Watson wrapped his arm around his wife and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "He was a good man, Mary. He even asked to be remembered to you, in his last letter."

"He did?" Mary raised her head, puzzlement clearly written in her tear-stained features.

"Yes. Here, I'll read it to you." Watson let go of his wife long enough to reach into his inner jacket pocket and brought out the small packet of papers Mary had retrieved from the much-abused tweeds. "'Pray give my greetings to Mrs. Watson…'" The doctor's voice slowed, as if to linger over his friend's words. "'…and believe me to be, my dear fellow, yours sincerely—Sherlock Holmes.'"

For a moment, Holmes' presence was almost tangible in the room, and the Watsons stood silent, each lost in their own thoughts. The clock on the mantel chimed eleven, and they shook themselves out of their reverie.

"What time did you say you were meeting Mr. Holmes' brother?" Mary asked, going to the desk and collecting her husband's untouched breakfast dishes.

"I need to inquire about that," Watson said, folding and retying the letter, and then replacing it in his pocket. "It was my plan to go to Baker Street first and see Mrs. Hudson; I'll write from there."

"I see." Mary neatly placed the dishes on the tray, readying the service for Ivy to take back to the kitchen. "Do you think you'll return before teatime?"

"I plan to." He crossed to where his wife stood and kissed her cheek. I will see you later, my dear."

He was just about to leave when he paused with his hand on the doorknob. Turning back, he looked at his wife for a long moment, then moved back across the room and took her in his arms for a kiss that left her breathless. Her cheeks were pink and her smile was beatific when they parted.

"How I love you, my sweet Mary," he murmured.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes!"

The landlady's voice traveled up the stairs, and Mycroft halted midway through putting on his coat. "Yes, Mrs. Pierce, what is it?" he called down into the stairwell.

A short, plump matron, Mrs. Pierce was nearly out of breath when she reached the landing where Mycroft stood with his walking stick in hand. "I'm glad I caught you before you left, sir," she wheezed. "The boy delivered it just a few moments ago. I had him wait in case you would like to reply."

Mycroft hung the cane on his arm, put in his monocle, and took the envelope. "Might I trouble you for a hairpin, madam?" Mrs. Pierce obliged, and received the hairpin back ere the envelope was slit. "If you'll pardon me," he murmured, moving toward the window as Mrs. Pierce averted her eyes and stepped back.

_12 MAGGIO 1891_

_COMUNE DI FIRENZE_

_ITALIA_

_MR MYCROFT HOLMES_

_PALL MALL_

_LONDON_

_BULLFROG STOP ONCE AGAIN I HAVE BROKEN YOUR SHAVING MUG STOP WOULD BUY YOU ANOTHER AS THEY ARE QUITE FINE HERE BUT MORE EXPENSIVE THAN I THOUGHT STOP I AM WELL OTHERWISE STOP TADPOLE END_

He stared at the letters until they swam in his field of vision. He raised his head, barely aware that the monocle fell from his eye and clattered dully against the buttons of his waistcoat.

_No, it was impossible!_ It had to be a cheap, foul trick by one of Moriarty's gang; there was no other explanation for it. And yet…

No one still living knew of the incident when a twelve-year-old Sherlock, bent on studying tadpoles one spring, decided that his older brother's shaving mug was the perfect utensil to scoop the wriggling black commas from the pond.

_Sherlock led him on a merry chase—well, at least Sherlock was amused—but nineteen-year-old Mycroft finally caught up to the sapling-slender, fleet-footed twelve-year-old in the black-and-white tiled foyer of the manor house. Their footfalls rang hollowly as they dashed into cavernous space. _

"_Bullfrog! Can't catch me, you ugly old bullfrog!" Sherlock sang out, cradling the purloined crockery against his shirtfront._

"_You're too old to be playing in the mud!" He caught the boy by the back of the trousers, and the sudden stop made the mug fly from Sherlock's hands. The porcelain shattered against the tile, sending murky pond water and tadpoles in every direction._

_With a moan of despair, Sherlock crumpled to the floor and tried to scoop up the slimy young frogs. It was no use, and one by one the tiny creatures ceased their struggles. With tears in his eyes, he rounded on his elder brother. "Now look what you've done! They're dead."_

"_It's your fault, Sherlock. If you hadn't taken them from the pond they'd still be alive." Mycroft seized his brother by the arm and hauled him to his feet. "Now stop groveling on the floor and get the servants to clean up this mess."_

_The boy growled like an angry cat and tried to twist away. "Let go of me! I don't have to listen to you."_

_Mycroft gave his younger brother a vicious shake. "I'm the eldest and I'm the man of the house now that Papa's gone. Now mind!"_

_Still valiantly fighting childish tears, Sherlock trudged away in the direction of the kitchen._

"Mr. Mycroft, sir," Mrs. Pierce ventured timidly, and he whirled on her. She blanched, but stood her ground. "Will there be any reply, sir?"

"No, no, not at the moment, Mrs. Pierce; thank you." He quickly folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket, then brought out a bright silver coin from the same pocket. "Here, give that to the lad."

"Of course, sir."

Mrs. Pierce hurried back down the stairs as Mycroft clapped on his black felt hat and followed her down to the street level. The boy saw Mycroft approach and jumped out of the way as the large man strode through the doorway.

It was only behind the closed doors of his own office that he allowed himself a wide grin. "_Sherlock_," he breathed. "Well _done_, my boy! Very well done, indeed!"


	6. Memorial

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House._

Chapter 6: Memorial

_Truly, to tell lies is not honorable;  
but when the truth entails tremendous ruin,  
To speak dishonorably is pardonable._

**--**Sophocles (496 BC - 406 BC), _Creusa_

Though it had stopped raining by the time Billy ventured forth from 221B Baker Street, he still felt the heavy press of gloom weighing him down as if his wool uniform had become drenched in a downpour. Even under the grey overcast skies of London, the world seemed too bright, the manner of passersby too brisk.

Dodging girls in servant's livery armed with market baskets, he thought back over the events of nearly a week past, scowling as he made his way through the streets.

_The door to the kitchen opened, but he kept his eyes and hands on the task of polishing the last of the silverware._

"_William," said Mrs. Hudson, closing the door behind her. "Put that aside for a moment." _

_As she settled into a chair across from him, Billy put down his polishing rag. The formal address plucked at him uncomfortably, and he shifted in his seat._

"_I have just had a telegram from Dr. Watson in Switzerland," she said, tears welling in her eyes. "Mr. Holmes is dead."_

_He felt a brief, intense pang of sadness, but then it was as if the feeling was whisked away just beyond his reach. With dry eyes, he glanced at the envelope, then back at Mrs. Hudson. "What 'appened?"_

_She sighed. "Apparently he and Dr. Watson journeyed to Switzerland, and there was an accident at Reichenbach Falls."_

_The way she said the word 'accident' raised the hair on the back of his neck. "Ma'am, you don't think--?" He gave an involuntary shiver. "That man you told me about, what came to see Mr. 'olmes—"_

_Her answer was too quick to have been the truth. "No, of course not." She managed a half-hearted smile. "Besides, doesn't—didn't Mr. Holmes always say that it is wrong to jump to conclusions before you have all the facts?"_

"'_Never theorize wi'out data,'" Billy quoted numbly._

"_I'm sorry." She covered his hand lightly with hers. "I just thought it best to tell you before you hear the paper sellers shouting about it." She pushed the telegram across the table toward him. "Here. You may read it if you want to."_

_He did not want to, but his fingers seemed to reach for the envelope of their own volition. The block letters printed on the paper confirmed what simply could not be: his brilliant mentor—his friend—was gone forever._

_Both landlady and errand boy went about their duties in a haze of shock for the rest of the day. Mrs. Hudson prepared a cold supper for them, but neither had much of an appetite and the few dishes were soon washed and stowed in the cupboard. After supper, as was their custom, they sat in her parlor while she knitted and Billy read to her._

_He was in the middle of a sentence when he realized she was speaking to him. _

"_Master William."_

_He looked up sharply to see her winding her excess yarn. "You've read the same sentence three times," she said gently, as she stuck her needles into her ball of wool and returned her work to the basket at her feet. "I think it's time you went to bed. We can finish the book another time."_

_Billy marked the page with a piece of scrap yarn and laid the book on a side table. "Then I'll say goodnight, ma'am."_

_Later that night, the world tilted crazily in his dreams. He felt the vertigo of falling and jerked awake seconds before being dashed to pieces on wet, jagged black rocks. His heart pounding, he huddled under the quilts and shook with silent sobs._

The greengrocer, butcher, and chandler all knew him by name, and it was almost more than he could stand to see the sympathy written on their faces. When he passed the bakery where he sometimes spent his tips, the baker insisted that he come in and pick out a cream bun to take home.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, 'no thank you,' but the little pastry was in a box and the box was in his hand before he could protest.

"Just the thing to cheer you up, my boy," said the baker. "It's on the house."

Billy looked at the box as if it contained a rotting fish. "Thank you," he said, feeling queasy.

He could not simply get rid of the treat; despite his lack of appetite, memories of hunger from his days on the streets of London compelled him to keep it. As if in answer to his unspoken dilemma, five rag-tag boys came running down the street and gathered around him.

"Oi, it's Billy!"

"Wotcher got there, Billy boy?"

For the first time in many days, the former street urchin cracked a smile as he recognized several of his fellow Irregulars. "It's a cream bun." He held out the box. "Here, you blokes can 'ave it."

Before anyone could take the box from Billy, an older boy with a mean face stepped forward, and the younger children edged away from the tall newcomer in the ratty tweed cap.

"We don't need your charity, Mr. Brass Buttons," he sneered, slapping the box out of Billy's hands. "I'd say go on back to that Baker Street dandy—if 'e weren't _dead._" He laughed, a rude guffaw that showed a mouthful of broken teeth. "Look at you, all prettied up, puttin' on airs like you was too good for the likes of us." He advanced until Billy could smell his rank breath. "Let me tell you somethin', boyo. When your missus turns you out, don't you be thinkin' about comin' 'round 'ere."

"Leave off, Parker," one of the younger boys cut in, but the bigger boy whirled on him in fury.

"Shut up!" Parker turned back to see anger and pain simmering in Billy's eyes. The bully gave a derisive snort. "Aw, did I 'urt its feelins? Is it gonna cry?"

Billy stared at Parker for a moment more, then turned and walked away.

There was an indignant roar from the ruffian behind him. "Get back 'ere! I'm not finished with you yet!"

"Maybe not, but I'm done with _you,_" Billy shot back over his shoulder.

He counted to three before one of the boys shouted, "Look out!"

Billy turned, fists up and at the ready, but Parker launched himself in a flying tackle against Billy's chest, and they hit the grimy paving stones hard. Parker twisted one meaty fist into the front of his opponent's uniform and buried the knuckles of his other hand into the younger boy's left eye.

It was then that a familiar voice cut through the roaring in Billy's ears.

"What's all this? 'ere, get off, you!"

He sucked in a grateful breath as the heavy weight against his chest was lifted away. There was a momentary scuffle and a yelp of pain, and then the angry voices of the other boys faded away as they chased Parker around the corner.

His eye was already beginning to swell, but he could see Wiggins looming above him, a worried expression on the young man's face.

"All right, Billy boy?"

"All right," Billy groaned, his head pounding so hard that he was sure it would fly off. In a few moments, the buzzing between his temples had diminished to a bearable level, and he slowly got to his feet.

"Your landlady's gonna do a better job on you than Parker did when she sees you," Wiggins chuckled, noting the missing buttons and the torn sleeve of his friend's uniform. "Wotcher brawlin' out in the street with the likes o'him for?"

Billy joined Wiggins in trying to brush off the worst of the dirt. "I was just tryin' to be neighborly," the younger boy scowled. "The baker gave me somethin' an' I wasn't hungry, so I gave it to the fellows. It wasn't charity, like Parker said." He squinted up at Wiggins, noticing for the first time that his friend was wearing a heavy leather apron and a clean, coarse shirt. "What're you doing 'round 'ere, anyway?"

"Same as you, workin' to earn my keep," Wiggins said, puffing out his chest a bit. "You remember Calloway, the carpenter, right? Mr. 'olmes wrote a letter sayin' I'd be good to help out around the shop. Been workin' for nearly a year now." He indicated the corner shop, which bore the sign _Calloway and Son_ over the door. "When you two started brawlin', Mikey ran in yellin' that Parker was set to murder you."

Billy winced in pain, though it was not from the injuries Parker had inflicted. Wiggins fell silent a moment, then sighed.

"So it's true, then, what the papers say," he murmured. "Mr. 'olmes _is_ dead."

Billy nodded. "Yeah. Dr. Watson sent the missus a telegram from Switzerland."

"It's a damn shame." Wiggins shifted uneasily. "So you think you'll stay on, then?"

"I've not been turned out yet, at least." The younger boy looked up at his friend. "Speaking of, I'd best get back." He shook Wiggins' hand. "Good to see you."

"Likewise." Wiggins turned to go, then stopped and turned back. "If the missus ever _would_ turn you out…well, come see me. Mr. Calloway's always looking for good lads."

Billy smiled andtook off at a run back to Baker Street.

* * *

The drive from Watson's home to his previous address was short, but it allowed him enough time to collect his thoughts and compose himself for the difficult hours ahead. As the cab turned onto the familiar thoroughfare, Watson noted that the neighborhood was as busy as ever. However, as he looked closer he saw that many men on the street—both those who he knew to be locals and those who were merely visitors going about their business—sported black armbands over their suit jackets. Many of the women wore black plumes in their hats, despite the spring weather that usually dictated much more cheerful ornament.

He sat back, shaking his head in amazement. Surely Holmes' influence did not reach so far as to plunge an entire city into mourning? As they rolled past the windows of the bookseller and the wine merchant, a conversation he had had with Dr. Doyle a month before came back to him.

"_The issues that feature your stories do very well, Dr. Watson," said the medico-turned-literary agent. "In fact, several have sold out within hours of their appearance on the racks."_

_Watson cast a dubious look at Doyle. "I thought they would be entertaining to the general public, but—sold out?"_

"_Yes." Doyle smiled. "Mr. Holmes, well—he's become something of a national hero." He produced a letter from his pocket and handed it to Watson. "This is a letter from Harper's Weekly, an American magazine. They wish me to ask you if you'd consider allowing them to publish the stories."_

_Where he had been merely dubious before, Watson was now amazed. "America?" He chuckled. "Mr. Holmes is always telling me how he wishes I would put more emphasis on the analytical rather than the emotional in my accounts of his adventures. I'm sure it will cause him no end of consternation to learn that my 'emotional' accounts are so widespread!" _

To Watson's recollection, Holmes had never read the stories in their author's presence, but Holmes was able to cut them apart so precisely that Watson was sure his friend had read them.

Now as the cab pulled up to the door, the smile died upon Watson's lips, and his heart sank. Never again would he listen to Holmes' sharp-tongued criticism of those stories. Gone forever were the evenings of sharing brandy and conversation with his friend. Gone, too, were the days of wielding the Army revolver, of lying in wait for an unsuspecting villain, of seeing firsthand that justice was done.

Feeling hollow and yet leaden, Watson paid the fare and extricated himself from the cab. As the cab clattered away, he approached the familiar portal, which was adorned with a wreath of dark red roses and twin tails of dull black ribbon. Though his key still resided upon the chain in his pocket, he felt it imprudent to use it after so long an absence, and therefore rang the bell.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hudson," said Watson, when the lady of the house opened the door. Mrs. Hudson's dress of somber black seemed to age her, and for the first time Watson noticed that her hair was fading from pale ginger to snowy white.

"Good morning, Dr. Watson," she returned evenly, her face composed as serenely as the Sphinx. "Won't you come in?"

He removed his hat as he stepped over the threshold. "Thank you."

The sound of the door closing behind them wrought an immediate change in Mrs. Hudson, and she turned back to him with eyes brimming. "Oh, Dr. Watson," she choked out. "I'm so very glad to see you."

He folded her into his arms and let her cry. "Dear Mrs. Hudson," was all he could trust himself to say.

After a few moments, she pulled away and fumbled for her handkerchief. "And I was so sure I had no more tears left." She wiped her eyes and tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve. "Here I am, carrying on as if I had no manners at all; let me take your hat and coat, Doctor."

As Mrs. Hudson busied herself with hanging up her former lodger's outerwear, Watson took a moment to reacquaint himself with 221B. For a moment the house seemed unfamiliar, and then he realized what was different: The large mirror in the hallway was covered with a shroud of white canvas. The brass pendulum of the grandfather clock hung motionless in the case, stilled by Mrs. Hudson's hand at quarter after eight. The hall table was covered in black cloth, and the only photograph Watson had ever seen of his friend was in a silver frame set in the very center of the table. Almost without thinking, Watson reached out and plucked the photograph from its perch.

The photograph was a few years old, but the sight of his friend's unsmiling, hawk-like profile jarred him. It had only been a little more than a week, but Watson was shocked to find just how many of the details of Holmes' face had already begun to slip into the mists of memory. He held the frame a moment more and then replaced the photograph on the table as Mrs. Hudson stepped up beside him.

"The day before we reached Meiringen, Mr. Holmes told me, 'If my record were closed tonight I could still survey it with equanimity,'" Watson said softly. "He said that the air of London was the sweeter for his presence."

"And so it is," she agreed, in a tone that dared anyone to say otherwise.

They stood silent for a few moments, and then Watson turned to his former landlady. "Mrs. Hudson, I—well, I should like to go upstairs for a little while. Would that be all right?"

"Of course, Doctor," said Mrs. Hudson kindly. "This will always be your home; stay as long as you like." The handkerchief appeared again, but this time she merely dabbed the tears from the corners of her eyes. "I'll put the kettle on, and when you come down we'll have a cup."

Watson smiled. "I'd like that very much."

* * *

As in the hall, every mirror in the sitting room was covered, but the clock on the mantel, having no pendulum, displayed the correct time. A new pane of glass had been set into the damaged window, but the burned shade had yet to be replaced. However, its twin was unharmed, and its drawn shade cast half of the familiar room in somber shadow.

It both pleased and pained Watson to see that nothing had changed in his absence. The chemistry set in the corner still gave off its scent of danger, the bookcases still groaned under the weight of a myriad of books. Only the desk beneath the naked window was not as it had been, its piles of paper having fueled the small fire set by Moriarty's gang. Now the desk stood bare, soot polished from its water-damaged surface by Mrs. Hudson's industrious hands.

The Stradivarius and its bow lay against the leg of Holmes' chair almost as if their owner had hastily laid them down and left the room for just a moment. Slowly, Watson crossed the room and carefully picked up the instrument. His fingers slipped against the strings, and the violin seemed to give a plaintive, discordant cry.

He looked down at the beautiful object, noting the deep red-amber colour of its varnish and the graceful scrollwork of the f-holes carved out of the violin's top. Reverently, he carried the instrument over to its case and laid it in its bed of worn royal blue velvet, tucking the bow into place close beside before lowering the lid.

After a few moments, Watson moved away from the violin and wandered to the chairs before the hearth. Above the fireplace, the etching of Reichenbach Falls was draped in black bunting. It struck Watson how ironic it was that for years, Holmes had literally stared into his own grave.

The doctor was in the middle of these maudlin thoughts when the door opened behind him. He turned and was astonished to see Mycroft Holmes walk through the door.

"Dr. Watson, good of you to come," said Mycroft, shutting the door behind him. "I'm glad you're here; it will give us a chance to talk before the others arrive."

"Others?"

"Yes, I invited Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to come 'round this morning at—" he squinted at the timepiece on the mantel—"eleven o'clock. That gives us fifteen minutes, plenty of time to talk."

Watson cleared his throat as Mycroft divested himself of outerwear. "Mr. Holmes, I…I wanted to tell you how deeply sorry I am for your loss."

"Sherlock always spoke well of you, Doctor," Mycroft said, hanging his hat on the rack by the door. "I thank you for your kindness in remembering my brother." He lumbered toward Watson and gripped the doctor's hand in a firm handshake. "I knew Sherlock could always count on you, and for that I am grateful."

The elder Holmes' ice-gray eyes held no accusation, and Watson fought to keep from turning away in shame.

"I fear that in this instance…I may have fallen short of that noble sentiment." Watson said softly as Mycroft released his hand.

Mycroft frowned. "Doctor, how could you ever say such a thing? Knowing the danger, you willingly accompanied Sherlock to Switzerland. Not many men in your place would have done likewise."

Watson felt a twinge of surprise at the elder Holmes' insight, but then remembered that Mycroft, swaddled in a red-tipped cloak, had driven the brougham from Lowther Arcade to Victoria Station.

"Not many men have had the pleasure to call Sherlock Holmes his friend," observed the doctor. "I was very privileged to have that opportunity." He crossed to the chair he had occupied on so many long nights and sat heavily, staring at the worn carpet between the toes of his boots. "Mr. Holmes, I must tell you—I was not there at the end. I did not see your brother fall."

There was an uncomfortable silence, which Mycroft broke by clearing his throat gruffly. "It was a Provident hand that spared you that dreadful sight."

As if he were a penitent confessing some unpardonable sin, Watson sat with his head in his hands. "Moriarty deceived us; he sent a boy with a message that there was an ailing lady at the inn. When I got back to the inn and realized that it had been a hoax…" He shook his head. "I ran as fast as I could, but it seemed an eternity passed before I could get back to the falls. When I arrived upon the scene, I could see evidence of a great struggle, but of the two combatants there was no sign."

The doctor's voice cracked on the last word, but he swallowed and continued.

"I spent quite a while calling out to him, hoping that if there was even a chance—"

"Doctor, you mustn't take on so," Mycroft said kindly, as Watson lifted his gaze to the other's mist-pale eyes. "On the morning he came to see me, Sherlock said he would have you with him rather than take the chance that one of Moriarty's gang would do you harm."

There were several moments of silence in the room. "'Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends,'" Watson quoted softly into the stillness.

"The Gospel of St. John," said Mycroft. "The fifteenth chapter, unless I am much mistaken." He moved to the window and pulled aside the curtain just in time to see Lestrade and Gregson alight from a cab. "Good," he nodded, letting the curtain fall back into place. "They're here."

* * *

Inspector Tobias Gregson pulled out his pocketwatch and read the time: twenty minutes to eleven. Collecting his hat and coat from the rack in the corner, he left his office and went downstairs to hail a cab. When he arrived at the kerb, he was only mildly surprised to see Inspector Lestrade set upon the very same task.

"Morning, Lestrade."

"Gregson." Lestrade spoke his colleague's name with only the thinnest veneer of politeness. "And where are you off to? Not neglecting some item of import at your desk, I trust?"

"No, sir." Gregson produced a small envelope from his pocket. "Going to Baker Street, at the request of Mr. Mycroft Holmes. And yourself?"

"The same." Lestrade smirked. The cab pulled up, and Lestrade swung open the partition. "After you, Inspector." When they were both situated, Lestrade glanced up at the cabbie. "221-B Baker Street."

The cabbie tugged at the bill of his cap and shut the porthole. The reins twitched against the horse's back, and soon the cab was engulfed in the bustling London traffic.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, until Lestrade said dryly, "Well, it seems as if Mr. Sherlock Holmes has truly outpaced himself this time, if he's asked both of us to come round."

The sandy-haired Inspector blinked at his dark-eyed rival. "I don't follow you, Inspector."

Lestrade fixed Gregson with a sardonic smile. "I wouldn't expect you to be familiar with Mr. Holmes' methods, Gregson; you haven't worked with him on as many cases as I have. Mr. Holmes is a master of elaborate ruses, although once or twice he has overdone things a bit."

"But...to fake his own death?" Gregson's right hand twitched as if he meant to cross himself. "The papers said that Dr. Watson was too distraught to give comment. Surely that means--"

"All part of the plan, I assure you. Though it does irk me that Mr. Holmes excluded Scotland Yard from something this serious," Lestrade mused. "He's always doing that, you know. It's a most irritating habit he has, going over everyone's heads, completely ignoring procedure. I think this incident justifies some very sharp words on my part," he sniffed.

Gregson sighed. "I do hope you're right," he murmured.

The wreath that adorned the door of 221B Baker Street was made of roses--roses of such a deep red that they looked almost black. Gregson was oddly heartened to see puzzlement in his colleague's face at the sight of the floral tribute; this looked to be, as Lestrade had said earlier, a bit overdone even for Sherlock Holmes.

The frown lines on Lestrade's face only grew deeper when their ring was answered by Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, who was clad from collar to hem in black silk.

"Come in, gentlemen." She stood aside to let them pass into the dim foyer, then took their hats and laid them on the round table in the hall, which was draped with a black cloth and bore a silver-framed photograph of Sherlock Holmes. All the mirrors in the hall were draped in canvas, and the pendulum of the clock hung silent and still. The landlady herself was pale and drawn, though her eyes were clear, and she led them up the stairs.

"Now you'll see something," whispered Lestrade. Gregson shot him a dubious glance, but said nothing as they continued their ascent.

Mrs. Hudson opened the familiar door at the top of the stairs. "Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson to see you, Mr. Holmes."

Lestrade's face lit in triumph, and he pushed past her into the sitting room. "Well, _Mr. Holmes,_ I--"

Gregson's heart sank as he saw what his colleague had already seen; the imposing form of Mycroft Holmes, clad in black and standing near his brother's empty chair by the hearth. Dr. Watson, also in somber attire, sat in his usual place to the left of the hearth, his features leaden with grief.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes." Gregson moved toward the former, his hand outstretched. "We met about six months ago--the affair in Beckenham. My deepest condolences for your loss, sir."

"Thank you, Inspector," Mycroft returned gravely. "You remember Dr. Watson?"

"Of course." The doctor rose from his seat, and Gregson shook his hand. "My condolences to you as well, Doctor."

Watson nodded. "Thank you for coming, Inspector."

Lestrade had not moved from his spot during the entire exchange, and his expression had moved beyond puzzlement to utter bewilderment. "Just what is going on here?" he demanded.

"It's the truth, Inspector," said Watson from his place near the hearth. "Sherlock Holmes is dead."

Lestrade's rat-like face went pale. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he murmured.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Now then, I think it's high time to attend to business. Gentlemen?" He indicated the pillow-strewn sofa with a massive hand, and the two newcomers sat. "Dr. Watson, would you do the honors, please?"

With slow, deliberate movements, Watson went to the cabinet where the younger Holmes stored his finest liquors and poured four glasses of ruby-red port. Two of these he delivered into the hands of Lestrade and Gregson, then kept the third and delivered the fourth to Mycroft. The Inspectors rose to their feet, glasses in hand as Mycroft turned to face the black-draped etching of Reichenbach falls above the fireplace.

"To the memory of Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft said solemnly. "Friend, brother, and loyal subject of Her Majesty. May he rest in peace."

"To Sherlock Holmes," intoned the others, and the toast was drunk in reverent silence.


	7. Interlude: Horizon

Lost and Found

By the Lady Razorsharp

AN: Inspired by Granada Productions' version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories _The Final Problem _and _The Empty House._ This particular interlude inspired by "Arabian Nights" from 'Harem' by Sarah Brightman.

Interlude: Horizon

_  
I know how men in exile feed on dreams of hope._

Aeschylus(525 BC - 456 BC), _Agamemnon_

January 1893

Dawn shrouded the countryside in a blue mist, revealing layer upon layer of switchback hills stretching off into infinity. No breath of wind, no song of bird or howl of beast disturbed the stillness. The last rays of starshine and moonlight glittered upon the snow, and the very air seemed to have cruel, needle-sharp fangs.

At the edge of a snowy courtyard enclosed by waist-high walls of ancient stone stood a tall man, a rough woven rug thrown about his thin shoulders. Under the woolen wrap, sheepskin boots peeped from beneath the hem of a long white robe. The man's dark hair curled in untamed waves against his forehead, and a scraggly beard obscured the sharp outline of his jaw. The skin stretched taut over the man's high cheekbones was tanned the color of chestnuts.

The figure stood so completely still that he seemed to be more like a statue than a human being, a sentry posted to guard the ancient mysteries housed in the monastery behind him. Only the glittering grey eyes that peered out from the tanned, bearded face gave any clue that the figure was indeed alive.

When he had first arrived at the monastery, he had been so exhausted that the monks let him sleep well past sunrise. Eventually, as his mind and body regained their balance, he took to rising at first light with the ranks of saffron- and crimson-robed brethren. At first, all he wished was to turn his face to the sun, soaking up its warmth until the ball of icy dread in the pit of his stomach finally melted away. When he had had his fill of sun and wind, he retreated inside and wandered through the halls, marveling at the rainbow of colors adorning every surface. Every hue had meaning; every shade was designed to draw the onlooker into a deeper, richer awareness of himself and the world around him. He had been transfixed as he had not been since he was a child, when he watched the play of light through glass prisms dangling from the lampshade at his mother's bedside.

Days and nights became an effortless dance of cobalt sky and quicksilver moon, his heart keeping time as he stepped clumsily at first, then more smoothly. Sometimes he stayed indoors and sat quietly to the side as the teachers and learned men instructed the monks in the ancient _sutras_. He honed his mind to a razor-keen awareness through meditation, and eventually slept without dreaming of a thundering flume of whitewater or long, spidery hands that clutched at his throat. Supping on the monastery's modest fare pared his slim form down to a whippet-thin column of lean muscle and hard bone. He had even forgotten his own name, had not spoken a word to anyone in his mother tongue nor heard it spoken—until that very morning, when he heard both in his dreams.

_Someone was shouting his name—a long, drawn-out sounding of the first syllable, tinged with despair and panic._

_Holmes!_

_He looked down to see Watson standing precariously on the edge of the wet black cliffs. Once more, a cry that seemed to spend every ounce of effort in his friend's sturdy frame was sent upon the humid air._

_Holmes!_

_His friend's name was on his lips, yet stuck fast in his throat. Watson…_

_The sun chose that moment to appear from behind a curtain of mist, and something glittered in the tangle of green covering one of the rocks. His friend fell upon the object—a silver cigarette case—and discovered the paper beneath._

_Time seemed to stop as his friend read the scant lines of penciled script. After an eternity, Watson folded both papers and case into his coat pocket, buried his face in his hands, and wept.  
_

Holmes awoke before dawn with the echo of Watson's name in his mouth. All around, the monks breathed deeply in the depths of sleep, and Holmes lay for what seemed like a long time in the darkness before rising silently to put on his boots. He picked up his sleeping rug and folded it about his shoulders, and stepped out into the starlight.

He remembered everything now; Moriarty in the sitting room at Baker Street, the worry in Mrs. Hudson's kindly face, the temporary shelter in Watson's consulting room, the sting of the carbolic acid on his knuckles. Mycroft's face and ponderous form came back as well, and then the mad flight to the Continent. Green hills dotted with patches of white snow, huge foreboding crags against azure sky, Watson saying what he thought to be a temporary farewell—it was all there, even the struggle on the cliff face, and the sickening lurch as Moriarty succumbed to the pull of gravity and fell into the raging torrent below.

Holmes turned his face up to the lightening sky. It was midnight or thereabouts in London, the hour when the great metropolis lay deeply asleep under her blanket of dirty white snow, the hour when the hooves of cab horses plodded dully through her streets. The windows of Whitehall and Scotland Yard would be dim and blank, save for lamps that burned at the desks of the diligent. He felt a smile curve his lips the barest inch; perhaps Lestrade or Gregson were yet toiling in their goodhearted yet inefficient way. Mycroft, he had no doubt, was long abed and snoring.

All would be quiet at Baker Street as well, with the shutters of 221B closed tight against the cold and the fire in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen stove banked low with ashes. He could see the good woman herself in his mind's eye, her faded auburn braid trailing down her back from under her kerchief, a candle in her grip as she tapped on the door to young Billy's room. Hopefully she would find the boy asleep, his books tucked away for the night.

And what of Watson? Simple logic told him that the doctor would be snug and safe in the rooms above the surgery, Mary close beside. There was no doubt in Holmes' mind that Watson had dreamt of the falls as he himself had. Sometimes the players changed places as if in a morbid game of musical chairs, and more than once Holmes had felt the cold, wet soil beneath his knees as he threw his voice down the falls, calling _Watson!_

To Holmes, the name of his friend spoke of steadiness, of solidity, of dependability. Over the years, it had become the symbol of the one and only venture toward another human being that Holmes had ever attempted. Mycroft was family and therefore a part of himself; the same blood sang in their veins, even though the art carried within had manifested itself in different forms. No, Watson had reached out, and in doing so created an unprecedented desire within Holmes to reach back.

A vision of Watson came back to him then: The doctor, clad in tweeds and gaiters, waving a gloved hand carelessly in farewell, the brain behind the blue eyes already leaping ahead to the preparations for making the consumptive patient comfortable. Without warning, Holmes was seized with a longing to see his friend so powerful that it took his breath away.

His finely tuned senses told him someone was near, and he turned quickly to his left. Standing a few steps away was a short, solidly built man with a thin moustache and a sparse goatee. A voluminous length of dark fabric, reflecting dull red in the meager light of dawn, was wound neatly around the man's frame. The dark eyes glittered like obsidian under a forehead as bald as a peeled egg.

"Good morning, _anagarika_," said the newcomer, in lightly accented English.

"Good morning, _Gyawa Rinpoche_." Holmes inclined his head in respect. "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I found I could not sleep."

"It is I who am sorry—sorry that you could not sleep." His Holiness Thubten Gyatso, the 13th Dalai Lama, smiled gently at the tall Englishman. "The brothers hear you call out to your friend. They are concerned for you."

Holmes stood silently for a moment, watching the snow turn from brilliant silver to matte blue. Finally he turned to the Lama, but found he could not meet the wise one's gaze. "I apologize, _Gyawa Rinpoche_, for disrupting your sacred place," Holmes said quietly. "Perhaps it is best if I move on."

"If you do, you will certainly live up to the name the brothers have given you." There was a glimmer of wry humor in the Lama's eyes. "_Anagarika_, the one who wanders, yet is not a monk."

Holmes looked toward the horizon, a slight smile on his lean face. After a moment, the smile faded. "I _have_ been wandering a long time," he mused.

"You will know when it is time to turn your steps toward home," said the Lama, "but first you must know yourself." He gestured to the monastery waiting behind them. "Come and learn, and put aside your wandering for a little while longer."

Holmes bowed his head in reverence. "Thank you, _Gyawa Rinpoche_."

With a warm smile, the Lama turned and headed back into the monastery.

The sun was turning the valley below into a basin of sparkling crystal. Holmes stood looking down at the jumble of snow-frosted buildings, and found his numb fingers slipping inside his warm robe to a small pocket—no more than a square of fabric crudely stitched onto the interior of the robe—to retrieve several much-folded telegram flimsies. The first of the forms dated from the previous May, while the second to last recorded his abrupt end to the conversation with his brother by wire.

_17 JUNE 1892_

_SIR STOP I AM GRATEFUL FOR YOUR COUNSEL AND ASSISTANCE IN YEARS PAST HOWEVER MY PATH LIES ELSEWHERE STOP YOU WILL NOT BE HEARING FROM ME AGAIN STOP_

Mycroft's reply was typical: Sharp, commanding, and full of the manipulation that was his trademark both as a high government official and an elder brother to a precocious sibling.

_19 JUNE 1892_

_DEAR SIR STOP HAVE A CARE FOR PROMISES MADE TO A CERTAIN LADY LONG AGO STOP I EXPECT A REPLY SHORTLY END_

Sherlock smiled faintly as he reread the message. At the time he had received it in Delhi, it had made him feel claustrophobic, unable to escape the confines of his old life even from halfway around the world. Now, after long months of self-imposed exile, it was somehow reassuring to know he was worth resorting to such a cheap shot.

Of course, that did not mean he was in any way ready to go back to London; just the thought of doing so set his skin to crawling. Yes, he had hurt Watson, he had hurt Mycroft—but those were the lesser of many evils.

_You will know when it is time to turn your steps toward home_.

Holmes folded up the telegrams and slipped them back inside his robe, then turned and went inside the monastery.


End file.
